


Despondency :(

by Periwinkle_paulie



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: (I was DEFINITELY lying), 1960s, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Bisexual John Lennon, Bottom!Paul McCartney, Cute Paul McCartney, Death Row, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Paul McCartney, Implied Mpreg, Implied Necrophilia, John Lennon Being an Asshole, M/M, Masturbation, Mpreg, No like seriously i havent been sleeping, POV Third Person Omniscient, Paul's a slippery fuck, Sub Paul McCartney, Top!John Lennon, True Crime, also ringo tops, because coconut ringo is ugly, but not as slippery as he is when John's done with him ayoooo, choking (I might have been lying), choking (just the kink i swear lmao), criminal john lennon, cross dressing, defensive john lennon, emotional john lennon, greaser!Ringo, implied rape, johns married to cyn lmao, judge!ringo, lawyer paul mccartney, pete's kinda a hero ngl, possible rimming?, starrison, yoko is prob a warden, you should probably air on the side of caution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 41
Words: 45,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26170657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Periwinkle_paulie/pseuds/Periwinkle_paulie
Summary: Dr. John Lennon: a man who was recently convicted of murder, necrophilia, and various other disgusting crimes, is sentenced to death by lethal injection. Although he claims to have had nothing to do with it, unfortunately, everybody and their fucking mom doesn't believe him.His last hope may be Paul McCartney, the city's best lawyer. With his youthful looks and brains, John finds himself falling pretty hard.Romance isn't the most ideal, not on death row; not when the prison is filled to its limits with inmates spilling out every which way. John, unfortunately, is paying that price.He only has about a year and some change, including court dates.⚠THE PROGRESSION OF THE STORY IS UNDER AMERICAN LAW. Unfortunately I don't know too much about the English justice system. ⚠
Relationships: Cynthia Lennon/John Lennon, George Harrison & John Lennon & Paul McCartney & Ringo Starr, George Harrison & Paul McCartney, George Harrison/Ringo Starr, John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Stuart Sutcliffe
Comments: 135
Kudos: 157





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> This is merely a prologue! Sorry it's so short :)

Paul’s office scattered with old papers, newspapers, whatever trash decided to collect in his workspace, but he did not even bother to do any tidying. It was difficult enough as it was, juggling nearly four cases at once, and getting no breaks in return. He messily scribbled down his signature on the work splayed in front of him, tie so badly done, and Paul swore that he was losing his mind; everything was just so overwhelming!

Trim fingers ran through his messy, brunette hair, silently contemplating if being a lawyer was truly the profession he wanted to continue for the rest of his years. He was only 26, gray hairs were popping up already. 

The telephone on his desk started to ring, the ring that he started to despise the most. Paul scrubbed his nails against his scalp, attempting to wait for the sound out, hoping that it would die down somewhat soon… However, he just could not resist, and he snatched the phone up, pressing it to his ear. 

“Mr. McCartney’s office, how may I help you?” He asked, tone on the brink of frustration. He would not know what to do with himself if it was another godforsaken spam number, coming to annoy him about how many gift cards he obtained, crazy shit like that.

However, the voice on the other end belonged to a man, one who he believed to be the warden at the prison down the street, causing a heavy pill to drop into Paul’s abdomen. 

“Are you taking any cases right now, sir?” The dark voice asked, causing Paul’s heartbeat to heighten against his ribcage. What could have possibly been going on this time?

“I am not so sure if I could pick up another. There is just—“

The man cut him off before he could finish, catching Paul off guard. Who did this asshole think he was? “Listen, sir. Nobody else has enough training to be able to do a case to this- this extravagance!” 

Paul’s eyes widened. He doubted there was a case that had greater importance more than the couple that he was struggling to keep up with. He was left speechless, but the warden continued to speak. “I know that you are very busy, but… this is something that we truly need your assistance with. Please just look at it! I can send you the case file if that helps?” 

The attorney let out a heavy sigh, every bone telling him that he should reject whatever this man was trying to press onto him, but his curiosity was peaked as soon as the warden mentioned the word “extravagance.”

Paul nodded, internally beating himself up for giving in so easily. “Alright, send it over.” 

* * *

It was difficult for Paul to wait for so many days, but eventually, there was a large envelope waiting for him to open on his doorstep, and as soon as he saw it, he scooped it up with uttermost interest. After wandering back into his house, Paul searched around for a knife to obtain, quickly tearing it open, and watching as the attachments fell against the tiled floor. 

An orange envelope looked up at him, staring at him and sneering, the red marker showcasing on the front intimidating him even further. There has never been an important file such as that one in his house, much less scattered across his kitchen floor. 

Paul made grabby hands for the file, cracking it open, and there the file was, out on display for him, leaving to the itching anxiety running throughout his body, making him feel anxious and giddy all over.

However, its contents were not what he expected to find. It wasn’t abnormal for a convicted felon to have a look of remorse, but not one to this extreme. Everything down to the name, John Lennon, to the morbid details, seemed to rub him the wrong way. Paul was starting to regret requesting the case because, to say the least, he was utterly terrified.

Manipulative.

Destructive.

Dangerous.

Paul wasn’t sure what to expect, what to dig up in this tough case, but he would try everything in his being to make sure he got to the bottom of this.  
Even if it meant he was going to work with a man who’s believed to act in necrophilia with his victims’ bodies… 

Time is ticking.

He must get to work immediately.


	2. Day Two

Paul arose from his mess of books, parting ways with his files that he so badly studied and placing them into a folder, where he could look next time when his headache wasn’t the only thing currently on his mind.

Nothing made sense. It made absolutely, positively, zero sense. The warden sent over John’s testimony earlier that day, but even with it, there was no way that Paul could have possibly done anything with it. From the catalog, Paul was able to realize that John was a stubborn individual who refused to give up easily.

All he did was deny, deny, deny.

But was it true? Did John really have nothing to do with the police’s current investigation?

All Paul could dig up were minuscule things, only that John didn’t grow up with his parents, but his Aunt Mimi and her six daughters. Paul assumed that he could contact them, maybe dig up whatever he could find, but Mimi was dead and her daughters lived across the country. There were no bones for Paul to track. Everything on John’s file was squeaky clean before the incident, and teachers, along with previous classmates, reported him as well behaved, besides the fact that he was antisocial and struggled with anger issues. 

It was like Paul’s lost his mind, only left to search for clues that were hidden underneath thick, heavy stones, leaving him to struggle and cry out of frustration. 

The option to even go and get a look at this man was off the table. Not for a day or so, that is. The prison was maximum security, one that was even more strict because it was on lockdown, or maybe they just wanted to see Paul suffer, day in and day out.

Paul leaned back in his seat with a heavy sigh, studying the texture in the ceiling above him, appreciating the light that cascaded off the chandelier, hanging so freely in his office, and making Paul feel utterly jealous. Why couldn’t he hang so freely?

Well, that would just be morbid… 

The office door creaked open, revealing a lanky man standing behind it, eyebrows pulling together with tension. Paul glanced up, afraid that it would be some serial killer coming to rip his head off, but, unfortunately, it was just George, who happened to be a coworker—and a close friend of his.

“And who said you could just come in me flat, all willy-nilly?” Paul asked, perfect eyebrows forming a soft glare, but the grin sporting George’s lips lifted a lighthearted tone in the room, practically brightening up the dark, gray hues of Paul’s walls, and promised Paul of the greater good.

“Well, ye gave me a key for a reason, Paulie. I just thought I might use it…” George quipped, thumping Paul upon his forehead with a slender finger. It brought Paul joy to finally see his friend, it’s been a while since he actually got to see a kind face other than the words of his textbooks. However, Paul still couldn’t help to wonder why the man came to see him, what he could have possibly wanted. “And I’ve got that case file ye requested.” George held up a file, running its crisp edges against Paul’s nose, causing the other attorney to laugh.

Hopefully, with a background check, and some information about his court case, Paul would be able to finally get the enlightenment that he so badly yearned for. This may not prove that John’s innocent, but it would surely help with speeding the process along quite cleanly. After retrieving the information, he let out a heavy sigh of relief. “Alright, shoo now,” Paul requested, playfully making a fanning motion with his hand. 

* * *

Paul ran his fingertips over the paper, studying the lettering with his fingerprints, dissecting each and last letter that displayed in front of him. Was this finally it? Was it what he was fussing over this entire time? Although it didn’t display a bible of information, it opened his mind to possibilities of all kind, who John was, the fucking colour of his underwear. Everything: he had to know everything.

John was a young doctor, still knee-deep in debt, and although a part of Paul despised the very thought of John’s presence, after knowing the allegations, he felt awful that they made the poor man wait so long for finally obtaining a lawyer because of his lack of funds. Even a fucked up individual like John deserved a fighting chance, and Paul would be that fighting chance if he very well needed to. 

Everything about this case would be free. It will be a pro bono case because Paul appreciated the thought of simply being there, even for a criminal who exceeded such an extent as John did. 

Paul sorted through his files, manicured nails exploring the surface of them, and perfectly organized they were. He didn’t want to seem like he was a mess, even though he overshadowed such a claim. 

Paul begged himself to stay away, the prisons smelled too strong of misery and pain, but maybe Paul was a bit of a masochist because he just couldn't abstain the absence of the prison for a long period of time. Paul was married to his job, and he wanted to make sure that she was up and taken care of. 

Even if it meant she birthed a monster, a demon of a man, who didn’t even show remorse for the sorrow that he left in his wake, and the torment only made him stronger. Paul knew what he was getting into, but he could not bring himself to turn away. 

With dark, there is light.


	3. Day Three

Real quick note: Since I doubt a lot of you guys read footnotes, I would like to inform you that Paul is pretty short throughout the duration of my story. 

I have taken it upon myself to make him 5’4, (162.56cm) BECAUSE I would like John to literally tower over him since that would be intimidating as shit lmao. Thank you for reading! 

This is completely the work of fiction, so if you don’t like my alternatives, please do not feel the need to read! I respect everybody’s standpoints, and I hold nothing against you (:

-Evelyn

—

Paul scrubbed a hand down his face, adrenaline rushing through his body at supersonic speeds. In front of him was the prison, barbed wires circling around the walls and entrance like it was a borderline zombie apocalypse, which only reminded him of the vile people who could have potentially inhabited it. 

The lawyer’s lungs expanded with a heavy sigh, his foot slowly coming in contact with the rough gravel decorating the prison’s courtyard. He, of course, couldn’t carry weapons on his person, due to the high risk of exchanging…

With a wary hand, Paul knocked on the cold, glass doors, silently waiting upon a response, maybe something more, such as a welcoming, open door?

What was he trying to hope for, exactly?

The first moments of silence caused Paul to start to regret his decision, his adam’s apple bobbing out of sheer anxiety, every second feeling like an eternity, and, finally, the doors were opened, but the guards standing on either side were everything but welcoming. 

Paul grasped onto his bag, nails seeping into the soft skin of his palms, silently hoping that utter terror wasn’t etched clearly all over his features. 

Silently, the two men beckoned him further into the building, and that was when Paul truly got the welcoming gift that the prison had to offer. The air smelled stale, thick, almost like his old middle school classroom, and Paul couldn’t exactly say that he favoured it too much. His suit stuck to him, almost like a baby would do to its mother, sweat already threatening to seep through his clothing, make him look more awkward and helpless than he already did.

Paul has done it dozens of times before, but here he was, feeling like he was a freshman all over again, every brick circulating the building being unfamiliar and almost uncanny. Paul would not know what to do with himself if he was ever brought to such a place.

The men in blue suits pushed open two, big, iron doors, letting Paul survey his new surroundings, to feel the familiar nauseous pit in his stomach start to knot all over again. He has never done a case so high up, so much more experienced than his previous ones. And, just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, they revealed a totally new wing of the building. 

A tan door blocked Paul’s nightmares, and the solid metal key was the only thing keeping the two separated. Paul’s knees shook beneath him, every part of him quivering and begging to run back to his mommy, just like the little girl that he was, on the inside, of course. However, his shoes kept their stance against the ground, glued to the concrete floor as the guards stepped aside, leading Mr. McCartney to the small, little interrogation room. 

They advised Paul to sit, and slowly, his movements like pond water, he sat in the uncomfortable, child-sized plastic chair, awaiting his client, who probably made the dozens of men in the slammer look like a walk in the park. Quietly, Paul awaited, drumming his nails against the cold table, inhaling the stuffy air, his senses almost hyperaware. The clock ticked, the fan continued to play its harmonic, white noise, but even that seemed to feel eerie to him, to make the hairs on the back of his neck prick up. 

The doors slowly opened, allowing about three guards to march through the room, a man tucked within their palms, and the man’s eyes were so sharp, begging Paul to question them, sporting an aquiline nose and thin, chapped lips, and a stare that sent the attorney running for the hills. 

Paul knew that this strange man couldn’t hurt him, he was chained up so drastically, his wrists, torso—even his ankles. So why did Paul feel intimidated as soon as the door was opened?

“H- hello. I’m Paul McC-“ He was cut off by a sharp, mean voice, and it somehow did not break, even when the guards threw him into the chair across from him so carelessly.

“I know who you are,” John replied, voice thin enough to cut blades. Paul did not understand why John was so cold, especially when Paul came to merely help the man… Paul’s intentions were not corrupt, and he assumed that John would have known that, but maybe John assumed rather differently?

“Well, I’ve come here to help,” Paul explained, managing a little smile, but John wasn’t budging. Nothing about him screamed ecstatic, and, to say the very least, Paul would have appreciated some level of enthusiasm. It would have helped to calm some of his anxieties. 

However, John just had to be difficult.

“I’m innocent, goddamn it.” He snarled back, nearly animalistic, leaving Paul to wonder if it was a human who made such a noise. Paul glanced back at the door, where the guards stood still, like stone rocks, and, after he looked at John for a split moment, he spared the other men a look. 

“Could you leave for a couple of minutes?” Paul requested, and before they could try and convince Paul otherwise, he quickly waived them off. 

Once the guards left, John looked up from the table, making perfect eye contact, making Paul feel as if he should have looked away. 

“Ye think that, since you wear a fancy suit and shite, sitting there and looking all prissy, that they’re just going to listen to you, no hesitation?” John asked, attempting to express with his hands, but the cuffs were so tight that they rubbed his wrists raw, told him to stay impossibly still, and forced a knot into his back, forced his posture to deteriorate. “Listen, dollface, you can’t do anything to help me. I die in a couple of months.” He accepted, and Paul’s face inevitably fell.

“But…” Paul trailed off, speechless. He wasn’t sure if John was telling him the truth, but he still wished that he could help, and he would attempt to make that happen. “I can help, and I can prove that to you.”


	4. Sometimes I Cry Myself To Sleep, knowing that I cannot hold you in my arms: Day four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John confronts his old lover, and Cynthia pays him a visit.

“I can help, and I can prove that to you.” 

John glanced back at the smaller man sitting across from him, struggling against his restraints, but the cold metal held a lot more power than his biceps did. Maybe it was the lack of exercise, maybe it was the fact that he was probably on the brink of malnutrition; they didn’t feed him that much, something about allowing him to starve because he called a carcass of a young woman a meal.

He wasn’t a criminal, however. They truly got the wrong bloke, and the way that this lawyer was looking at him with such despair, such hidden fear… John felt his heart swell against his chest, a small sliver of him feeling as if maybe they were right, maybe he was the monster that they so badly tried to convey. What if he blacked out, and a new person took over his body, made him do all of the terrible things that he swore that he didn’t do? 

McCartney broke his train of thought, causing John to lightly stir in his uncomfortable seat. John expelled a heavy sigh, shaking his head, wondering how the hell he got himself in such a catastrophic mess… “I know what you’re here for.” John insisted, clearing his dry throat, and looking up into the attorney’s honey eyes, but John found no such comfort in them. “You just want to get your header in the newspaper, make everybody see you as some kind of hero, for helping…” 

John was quiet for a moment. He couldn’t say that word, he couldn’t even bear the syllables against his tongue. He wasn’t one, he couldn’t be. “For helping a guy like me, y’know?” he summarized awkwardly, watching as Paul’s features tense and relax with confusion, eyebrows forming a cohesive thought.

Goddamn it, he hated lawyers. He hated the way that they talked, the way they dressed—and this one was no exception, sitting there like he owned the whole prison. Maybe John should just reach over, choke him out, and give the guards a real reason to restrain him. “Well,” Paul cleared his throat, managing a smile. John wished he could tear that annoying grin right off of Paul’s stupidly soft face. 

“This case isn’t going live, so I don’t really know what you’re going on about,” Paul leaned back in his seat, arms crossed firmly over his chest. “But I am here for you, you know I am. I have no other reason to be here.” The lawyer shrugged. John was annoyed by even inhabiting the same room as Paul, but he supposed that, somewhat, the young man had a bit of a point.

“So, how about you scratch my back, and I will scratch yours. Just cooperate with me so that I can do my job.” 

After much anticipation, John decided that Paul’s suggestion couldn’t do much more hurt than John was already in. For fuck’s sake, he was on death row! All Paul could do was speed up that process, but John wasn’t at all opposed to that idea, somehow. John accepted that he was going to die, and he was sure Paul could piece that together. 

“Alright, whatever.” John shrugged. As soon as Paul jumped up from the table, John wasn’t sure if he enjoyed his decision any further.

“You won’t regret your decision, Mr. Lennon!” He insisted, and, thank God, he was eventually able to calm down and slump back into the stool. Paul sorted his papers splayed out in front of the table, allowing the file to keep them securely in place for him. 

* * *

Once Paul shuffled out of the claustrophobic room, John immediately tightened up where he sat, expecting to feel the large guards to scoop him up beneath his arms, to drag him out of the room and run him to his cell. Everything was rushed, there was no way that John would possibly breathe in the moment, to take in the refurbished air circulating around the room, but he wasn’t sure why he wanted to anyways. It wasn’t as if he was on vacation at some luxurious ski resort. 

Iron doors squeaked open, and it had become routine enough for John to be able to ignore the inmates yelling at him from across the hall, the loud clanking of metal spoons against the steel bars, and the… quite disgusting bodily fluids flying around him. The guards shoved him into his cell, slamming it shut, and, thankfully, they insisted that it was somewhat soon for visitation. 

It shouldn’t be a privilege for him to see his poor, stressed wife, but that was how it was. He—somehow—did the crime, so he had to pay the price… For a goddamn crime that he didn’t even commit!

John relaxed against the wall, his eyes exploring the ladybug trying to make his way across the floor, probably to get back to the missus. He traced the dirty footprints on the cement ground with his fingertips, fingerprints smudged against the outlining. 

“John?” The man in the next cell called out, causing John to become even more annoyed with everything going on around him. 

“What is it, Stuart?” He asked, making no attempt to look at the wall, knowing that nobody was there—well, nobody was there that he could actually see. John was too tired to deal with whatever the hell that Stuart wanted. The man had to know that John’s plate was already filled to the brim, and John wasn’t nearly hungry enough to finish it all, not even a third of it.

“I miss you,” Stuart whispered, and that is when John slammed his head against the cold wall, ignoring the pain pounding through his head. He couldn’t bring himself to care, to even acknowledge the pain. 

“Why can’t you let it go?” John asked, running a tired hand through his curly locks, making note of the strain in Stuart’s voice, how pained it was. He knew that Stuart was about to cry. John couldn’t handle crying. 

“Because I love you.” The other man went on, sobs distinctly ringing throughout the two of their cells, John’s paranoid eyes following the guards surveying the premises, hoping that they wouldn’t hear what a commotion that Stuart was causing. A part of him felt terrible, unable to comfort Stuart in his world of hurt, but the other half of John was pissed. Stuart needed to move on, and it creeped him out how persistent that he was, how strongly he grasped onto John, and kept tugging him back. 

John loved Stuart once upon a time, but that time was over. John wanted to stop running away from his problems, stop running away from his beautiful wife, and accept that things would not get better unless he did something.

However, this situation was drastically more different. There was simply nothing that John could do, and his life was now in the small hands of a lawyer who probably just got out of diapers. There was no way that kid was a day over, what, twenty? 

“John, please,” Stu continued to go on. “I miss holding you in my arms, okay? I cry myself to sleep! I need you!” 

There was probably a hole on the inside of John’s cheek by now, he seemed to bite it often, much more than he used to. It wasn’t healthy, but there was no other way for John to cope. Not when a kid constantly had a mental breakdown, another trying to coax him away from the bloody electric chair. 

“Please!”

Maybe a nap would be nice…

“I took your love for granted.”

Or he could read a book, that was also a good idea.

“I just need to hold you one more time, I can convince the guards-“

“No, Stuart,” John mumbled, a part of him yearning for the sweet sound of silence, to be left to his thoughts rather than a squeaky voice like Stuart’s.

And, just when John thought that he could finally relax, the doors boomed open once more, fading light highlighting both of the guards’ sharp faces. “You have a visitor, Lennon.” They explained, and John could feel his heart picking up in his chest. 

He stood up on shaky legs, allowing the guards to shut the door, and turning around so they could tighten the familiar, cold cuffs around his wrists, being dragged towards the front, like he was a bouncing ball running from room to room. 

However, all of his worries dissipated when he saw Cynthia sitting on the other side of the glass, her hair done up just like how he liked it, a smile slowly growing on his cracking lips, but she didn’t look even half as happy as he did.

She was… Glaring at him? Why did she look so angry? There was no way that she could be buying into the rumours.

“Tell me the rumours aren’t true.” She started with, almost as soon as he sat down and had the phone pressed up against the shell of his ear. The fact that Cynthia even needed some closure spoke volumes. Her face looked so drained, and she looked so miserable. He did this to her. He caused her so much pain—no, the whole force did. He didn’t do anything. John didn’t even have any speeding tickets on his record: to them, he was perfectly clean.

“Do you really have to ask me that question?” John asked, face falling. If only she had some trust in him, gave him the dignity that he felt inside. The look on her face told him everything, described to him that she did view him as a monster. Except, however, she didn’t spit the insult in his face, like it was a scolding piece of venom. Her face was hurt, disappointed, and that did more damage than even the most venomous cottonmouth. “No, Cyn! I didn’t do shit to them!” he insisted, but Cynthia was left unconvinced. 

His wife looked away with hurt, the phone clasped in her soft hand falling, perfectly manicured nails now chipped. He felt as if a raincloud was hanging over her head, even her hair looked sadder than it used to. 

She didn’t believe him. 

“I just… John, I don’t think I can do this anymore.” Cynthia whispered, scrubbing a hand over her face, tipping her head, outgrown roots messily slapped against her scalp. He never saw her so frazzled, but her words were like a million knives to the heart.

John opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get even a breath out, Cynthia dropped the phone against the table, turning her back, and heading for the nearest exit. Everything was in slow motion, he was losing everything. 

It was like a bad film, playing over and over again.

But unlike a film, he couldn’t do anything to stop it.


	5. My life is In Your Hands: Day five

The sun was shining brightly that day. Cotton clouds lingered, flowers decorating the blue sky across broad daylight, and the birds were singing. It was warm, but a certain warmth that would cause happiness to tickle the stomach, to feel so uncontrollably comfortable in the bed of colourful plants. 

John glanced up from the sweet scent of dandelions, smiling when he managed to look up into Stuart’s eyes rather than poor Cynthia’s, and the moment was so perfect that John just wanted to marvel in it, to inhale the warm oxygen into his lungs, and be caressed and held in his lover’s arms…

“You look so pretty today, love,” Stuart whispered, causing blood to quickly rush to the apples of John’s cheeks. Was this really happening? How did he get so lucky, especially with a man with such perfect features, such a perfect, mellow voice, and all for himself—only, himself. “I just… I dunno, when I’m with you, the world seems to stop.”

John smiled, the corners of his eyes creasing out of appreciation. 

And, just when Stuart rolled on top of him, John’s arms circled around the man’s shoulders, basking in the warmth that Stuart brought with him, their chests pressed together, hearts practically in sync. Everything was like a dream, a dream too good to be true, and he was living it, with his Stuart, and Stuart held onto him with uttermost care and love.

John, however, couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. Cynthia was an amazing woman, but she didn’t have the ability to make him feel as special as Stuart did. Stuart was perfect, like a man straight out of his most hopeful fantasies. Just like Elvis, but… Better, as weird as that sounded. 

Warm kisses splayed down the side of John’s neck, his breath hitching in the slightest, and his thighs parted wantonly, begging for more of those pecks that he craved so dearly. Stuart treated him with delicacy, and forced a part of John to open that he didn’t even realize that he could accompany. 

He let Stuart do what he wished with him, because he trusted him, and he knew that Stuart wouldn’t do anything to hurt him.

Stuart explored the skin on John’s chest with the palms of his hands, and John let out a breathless whimper, barely audible beneath the hitching of his breath, the wanton sighs and begging glances with his gaze.

John was capable of being whatever Stuart wanted, and he would have done anything to please the man on top of him. Stuart was rightfully aware of that.

“I am going to make you feel so good, Johnny.” He promised, smiling down at John, and appreciating the man’s supple flesh, especially the skin that collected along his thighs, the skin that was so deliciously flushed even with the smallest touch.

However, when the sweet caresses transitioned into something more cynical, John was left confused, unaware of the pain that would soon relish his body.

John’s eyes followed the movements of Stuart’s once skillful hands, a switchblade quickly coming into view, against John’s jaw, warm blood compliantly dripping down the pale, hickey riddled skin, a scream forming around a helpless plea…

John shot up on the prison’s hard mattress, sweat-soaked skin causing a cold draft to run throughout the tiny cell, panting as he glanced around, studied his surroundings. It was just a dream? It felt so real, Stuart’s voice still remained inside of his head, ringing its eerie, throaty laugh, and reminded John why he left the man the way that he did.

It was difficult enough to live a constant self-aware nightmare, they usually existed in present-day, but that one felt too real; he swore that Stuart was on top of him a couple of seconds ago, that he was still lying beneath the bed of lilies, pretty lavender flowers…

That probably coated with his crimson blood, smelled of sweat and pain that riddled John’s body at the time of occurrence. 

John hated being in the small cell, caged up like an animal, but after the dream he just had, it felt like he was in Hawaii or some crazy shit like that. 

The pig of a guard walking around, the one who counted every hour, was even a nice appearance once John spotted him. 

Anything was better than being with Stuart again, listening to his annoyingly comforting voice. And although John didn’t really enjoy the fact that Stuart was on death row instead of a psych ward, a part of him liked that Stuart was locked away forever, soon to come to his fate, and not bother or traumatize him again. 

John shuffled off of his bed, his eyes trailing along with the tiles that decorated the floor that he now called his home. Home was supposed to be comforting, not something that he feared, that he was intimidated by because he had quite an interesting neighbour.

However, unlike a home, he didn’t have his beautiful wife by his side, assuring him that everything would straighten itself out. She thought he was a monster, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Monsters don’t keep pretty women, and neither does John, apparently. He supposed him and the monster were alike, in their own special way.

But the monster that he despised was the one who got him locked away in the first place. John wished that he could find a way to help his own case.

All he could do was wait, hope that the stupid, prissy little lawyer would find himself a bone to chew on sometime soon.


	6. He was still here after hours: Day Six

It was half-past nine, which was normally a time that Paul was still fast asleep in bed. Lately, though, he’s been struggling to even get a few hours of sleep; his mind was nocturnal, and would not stop talking unless he got it a lead. 

He needed a source of comfort, he needed closure and recognition, which was crazy since he wasn’t the one with his neck on the line.

Paul’s shoes tapped against Liverpool’s stone, slick sidewalk, moving like he had a purpose, and pushing past people who were simply standing in the way, blocking entry as if they wanted to propel him away from his job. 

A binder tucked away beneath his arm, Paul opened the door to a humble little coffee shop, the air warm in contrast to England’s harsh winter. He couldn’t believe it: life was still going on around him, even though he was struggling and almost pining to tear his hair out. 

It was so early in his case, but even then, he felt like he was short on time, like nothing was falling into place accordingly. Eight months seemed like a lot, but not when he had to keep hearings in mind, court dates, etc. Eight months was going to breeze by, and Paul wasn’t entirely sure if he could make it.

However, as stressed as he was, the quaint coffee store was enough to ease some of his anxieties. The smell of caramel was nice, greeted his nostrils with something other than fear and misery. 

A woman led him forward, her smile so contagious that even he was able to return it, even during tough times such as these. She sashayed over to a red booth, gesturing for him to sit, and it enveloped him so lovingly, allowed him to relax a little. 

Paul removed the papers from his binder, examining the information that spoke at such vague frequencies, and for the first time in forever, the brunette felt like he was stumped. He was only running in circles at this point, staring at the man’s mean features, a scowl that could make Paul tremble with just one, short glance. 

That is, until a cute blonde shuffled over to his table, her hair bouncing with every step, freckles embedded across her nose, and a smile that was a lot friendlier than John’s.

“Hello, love,” She greeted, catching Paul’s attention, his eyelashes curling as he looked up at the beautiful woman. Her name tag read “Linda,” and if he liked women, he would have probably considered her to be the most gorgeous girls he’s ever laid his eyes upon. “What can I get for you?” Her pen clicked, and she pulled a small notepad from the pocket of her uniform.

“Just a coffee, please. No sugar, a little almond milk should do the trick.” Paul described, but she seemed more compelled to the pictures laid across the slick wood of the table. “Unless a lovely bird such as yourself would be interested in enjoying a coffee cake with me?”

Linda laughed. Despite her flushed cheeks, Paul could already tell that she was going to reject him, but instead of assuming that she just didn’t want to, he prided himself too much, and knew it was probably because she was still on shift. “I know him.” She quickly changed the subject, poking a lovely finger towards the direction of the pictures displayed on Paul’s pictures.

“You do?” Paul asked, his eyes growing wide. Here he was, thinking that maybe going to the coffee shop was a terrible idea, but God decided to bless him that day and drop something beautiful onto him. Maybe it was coincidental, but Paul felt utterly glad that he had Linda as a barista instead of some other woman. He doubted they would have a keen eye like hers.

“Of course I do. He always wanted a black coffee, hold the sugar.” Linda remembered fondly, her smile growing brighter on her face as she spoke of a good memory. 

Well, if John got such a remarkable lady to smile, Paul was sure that he wasn’t as bad as everybody insisted, but then again, Linda seemed to be naïve, although Paul had a liking to her, one that was quite fond. 

Before Paul was able to open his mouth, the blonde started to talk again, her blue eyes constantly trained upon the picture. She seemed almost sad, as if the mugshot of him surprised her. However, sadly, he couldn’t give out information on a client, so he couldn’t tell her what exactly was going on.

“Y’know, whenever he came here—which was quite often—almost every night, I always had to kick him out after hours.” Linda chuckled, shaking her head sadly. 

Paul immediately made a mental note of that. It wasn’t enough to convince him that John was innocent, but it still put the possibility in his head, gave him a sliver of hope. Maybe, one day, he would be able to have as much confidence as Linda did. He doubted that he would be able to convince Linda that John was guilty. 

“He is a good man, Mister…” She trailed off, waiting for Paul to finish her sentence.

“Mr. McCartney. Paul McCartney.” He smiled, watching as she looked away shyly with a giggle, fiddling with her little hands. However, after a couple of moments, she gasped, realizing that she was off track.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” Linda chuckled, collecting her things, and sparing both Paul and the image one last glance. “I should be getting your coffee.”

And, as fast as she appeared, Linda quickly rushed to the back of the little café.


	7. Day Seven

The streets solemn, Paul made his way down the pavement, glancing around with paranoia, checking every corner to make sure nothing was going to come and jump out at him. 

John was a doctor, but being a doctor didn’t automatically make him wealthy, and, unfortunately, Paul found himself in the slums, where a friendly grin was hard to come by, and cars went off at every corner, further heightening his anxiety. 

It wasn’t exactly the most practical place for Paul to be in the middle of a gloomy day, but he legitimately had no time to waste. 

John informed him that he, at often times, frequented the hospital, and Paul was on his way to take up his alibi with the man’s boss. 

Too bad it was such a far distance, and too bad that he felt too nervous to bring his car with him. It was walking from here. Paul smoothed his clothes, which he happened to be dressed quite casually—might he add—just so nobody knew what business he truly attended. 

After much walking, and a shit ton of ducking, he eventually came across a rundown building. It wasn’t anything too extravagant: just a couple of billboards advertising the hospital’s medical reviews, along with a, surprisingly, green garden, full of plants and roses that Paul could only dream he would have in his own one of these days…

Paul ran his clammy hands against the fabric of his trousers, eventually using the backs of his knuckles to tug the front doors open, and thankfully, the building didn’t decide to give way just yet, which was a miracle in on itself.

A lady sat at the front desk, working on whatever work she had assigned, a fair wrist coming up to wipe the sweat away from her forehead once she spotted Paul’s stance.

“Can I help you?” She called out, and Paul responded with a gentle smile, hoping, silently, that he would be able to bypass the counter without any problems, but that was merely wishful thinking.

“I need to see Dr. McClean? He has information on a client I’m working on.” The lawyer explained, his voice becoming lower on the last syllable of his request, but the poor woman—bless her soul—didn’t pick up on the hints that Paul was giving off.

“I’m the lawyer,” Paul explained, rolling his eyes, and she finally seemed to catch up with him. The process wasn’t too lengthy at all, Paul already called ahead of time, and McClean agreed that they’d have a meeting after his shift, and it happened to be right around that time.

The little lady at the desk held out a blue sticky note for Paul to follow, to which Paul accepted, and continued to survey the hospital. It was not very big, probably much smaller than comfort, and the walls were dirtied with probably years and years of use, telling by the chipping paint and the earthly ripe scent practically suffocating Paul’s poor nostrils.

Paul followed the flight of stairs, an elevator nowhere to be seen, but the hospital couldn’t be more than a couple of feet tall. John couldn’t have possibly worked here, it was much too obvious, too stereotypical for a serial killer doctor. 

Nonetheless, Paul tread up to the head doctor’s office, giving it three, hard knocks before eventually, a plump man answered it, short, so much even that he was around Paul’s height, although he sported a gray comb-over, and he didn’t look the friendliest… However, Paul was used to it by now, and it didn’t come as a surprise when McClean grunted out of disapproval.

“McCartney.” He greeted, dry, the tension so high in the room that Paul wouldn’t be surprised if a knife could cleanly slice through it. The doctor shifted, allowed Paul to walk in, and led him over to a small coffee table, one that Paul presumed to be his… Desk? How could a hospital not even afford a desk? Everything was so alien to him; Paul has never been in a hospital so low into poverty, but he didn’t think it was his place to question it.

“I’ve come to talk to you—it’s about one of your doctors.” Paul reminded, and McClean simply rolled his eyes. Paul informed the doctor about what they were going to discuss, but he could have been a little nicer. “He’s in prison, y’know…” 

It should have served a surprise, but the information didn’t seem to even phase the man that stood before Paul. Paul set his files down on the marbled table. “I would like to know if I could snoop around his office a little bit. I dunno, maybe find something that could help speed up my work by a little bit.”

Despite the reassurance, the old man didn’t look too happy, not one bit. It was as if Paul was being ridiculed, stared down like he was invading by even being in the vicinity of the hospital. He had to be going crazy, there was no way that Dr. McClean thought so lowly of him, but when he opened his mouth, Paul’s worries were confirmed true.

“Not without a warrant, you can’t.” He told the lawyer who sat across from him, and Paul was worried that this man was starting to catch onto his self-inflicted doubt, that the doctor could read right through him. He wasn’t like most lawyers, they weren’t as nervous as him, and although it had its benefits, this wasn’t one of those times. Often, when he was anxious, everybody just thought he was lying, when in reality he wasn’t, and Paul just wanted to make everybody around him happy as humanly possible.

“Please, sir, it’ll be quick.” Even with Paul’s pleas, the other man wasn’t budging. Paul would have to try harder if he wanted to get his attention, and that attention would not be obtained unless he followed McClean’s order and grabbed himself a warrant.

Paul highly doubted that it would be a cakewalk to get one so quickly, but he would have to try--for John.


	8. Day eight

Even from John’s prison cell, he could still distinctly hear the pitter-patter of the rain against the already abused roof. It would have been an enjoyable sound, but his brain pounded so roughly between his ears that he didn’t even have the opportunity to appreciate such a calming, sweet noise. 

That, and the fact that people often hit their heads on the wall, possibly even sang themselves a “sweet” lullaby that John no longer found very comforting.

Watching, John’s brunette eyes followed a guard’s silhouette, and he wondered what was going through his head; he was probably waiting for his shift to end, to get back home to the wife and kids, maybe yell at his children a couple of times before he would eventually get in bed, sleep with his back turned to his poor, sexually deprived wife, and then the cycle would repeat itself, over and over again. As uncanny as it sounded, John wished he could live such a simple life. 

How peaceful would it be for John to come home every day, say hello to his beautiful Cynthia, and possibly have a couple of kids? 

Life could be a dream…

The loud sound of clicking ran through the hallways, high heeled feet making its way closer to his cage, and the smell of… What was it? Roast beef? Filled his senses, and a woman came into view. Not exactly the most attractive woman, but the blonde hair was a start, he supposed. 

“Come get your food, inmate.” She hissed, but John could read right through her. She may have been tall, long, and rather tiny, like a skeleton, however, her demeanor didn’t phase him. Nothing really phased him anymore. Nonetheless, John shifted off of the bed—if one could even called it that—and shuffled over to collect his slop.

The woman, however, didn’t make any attempt to walk away, to feed the other inmates, instead, she just looked at him, her eyes big as she looked down at the wound on his arm. “What happened to you?” She asked. John wouldn’t have paid any attention to the scar unless she mentioned it, but his mind started to wander as soon as she started to move her ruby lips around each syllable of her words.

He wasn’t about to tell some lady about his whole life story?

No, that would just be crazy…

“I, um…” John trailed off, peering down at his angry scar before him, the transitions and veins tensing beneath the thick, traumatized skin, spots of light hair frenzying around it, nowhere to be found against the surface. He was careful with his words; if he spoke too much, maybe they would have much more to charge him with. “When I was a bit younger, y’know, in my teenage years, I kind worked with some kids at a foster home.” He explained.

The woman nodded, signaling John to continue with his explanation, and she seemed so interested, it caused John’s heart to swell in his chest. Ever since he’s arrived, he’s been treated like a demon, a monster instead of man. It was refreshing to find somebody who wasn’t completely callous. Although he felt anxious to start speaking again, her warm, blue eyes brought him comfort, like pools of water ready to embrace him, to let him forget about the pain pressed into each little crevice of bone in his body. 

“I left the stove on. It caused this huge explosion, fun shite like that.” John rolled his eyes, anxiety filling his body as he messed with the stem of his apple, twirling it between his fingertips. 

“And, y’know, I start chucking kids out the window, left and right. They all thought it was some kind of fun game, so here I was, runnin’ around the bloody place, having to risk breaking my arse to save these couple of brats.” John smiled fondly. Even within a horrible memory, the happy looks on the kids’ faces, although somewhat eerie in that moment, was something that he was able to grin upon. 

“But anyways,” He continued, his face falling, the pinching, the warm, unforgettable feeling ringing freshly throughout his head, like it happened not too long ago. “The fire spread faster than herpes, and before I could move, this huge—and I mean massive—piece of wood pinned me to the ground, it was, like, red as a fuckin’ ginger kid’s pussy, let me tell you.” John snickered, dropping the cheeriness of his voice. He often tried to comfort himself with humour, but he assumed that the lady probably saw clearly through his strategy. 

“If my friend… Er, Stu wasn’t there, I wouldn’t even be here right now.” He sighed, his gaze instinctively shifting to the cell next to his, and just like that, John felt a certain twinge of gratitude, sympathy, shoot up his body. “Sometimes it hurts, y’know, looking down at the daft asshole, but really, he was the only face I saw as my skin cooked off me goddamn arm.” 

By the time he was done taking a breath, the sweet lady he thought was listening, shrugged his explanation off. Maybe she wanted a smaller summary, but John wasn’t sure why he felt a sudden rush of euphoria wash over his body. Maybe the woman was sort of a bitch, a whore who didn’t care about his story, but it gave John enough confidence to break into a little smile. 

He didn’t care for Stuart as much as he once did, but Stuart shouldn’t have been demonized as much as he was caking on. Stuart saved his life! John should have been kissing the fucking ground he walked on, for god’s sake! 

John carried his tray back to his bed, and there he sat, munching on a dry apple as he, instead, looked upon the memories he shared with Stu with a more lighthearted tone, one that he could smile upon. 

Poor Stuart was just trying to obtain John’s attention, and John was too far up his own ass to realize that.


	9. Day nine: Who said windows ever stopped anybody?

Paul has always been the good boy, the one who teachers always grinned upon when they spotted his presence, the one who would follow the rules and—probably—be friends with everybody he came across. Hell, he was a choir boy until his mother died; he was always on his best behaviour. 

However, now that he was older and… more mature, he found himself climbing up the pipes against the north side of the hospital, shoes squeaking and slipping down the brick walls as he struggled to pull himself up. Paul didn’t have much of an upper-body, especially one that could help him adjust to a tall, well, tall enough to cause him to struggle, building that didn’t really have enough to grip onto.

By the time he was against the top story window, his face was probably as red as a tomato, puffing and trying to catch his breath, carefully stepping into the conveniently opened window. He would be dead meat if somebody caught him, so it was crucial that he stayed as quiet as a mouse. 

With his feet as light as feathers, Paul practically hopscotched around the hospital. Despite even the lightest touch, the building creaked and groaned beneath his weight, complained, and caused a shiver to wrack his spine, terrified that he would alert the patients behind closed doors, or worse, the staff that was most likely lurking the halls. There was no way Paul could slip himself out of a bad situation. He could not explain why he was trespassing; although he was risking his whole career for John, Paul felt like he had to keep everything hush-hush. 

The lawyer wanted to take a legal route, but the judges were all occupied with their own cases, and they probably wouldn’t have helped him anyway. Paul was familiar with the law, but he failed to recognize that, most likely, lawyers could not get a warrant. 

However, he pushed those toxic thoughts to the back of his mind. He focused on scurrying around the halls, searching for a name that resembled John’s, and although it took him a while, eventually, he found the man’s office. 

Paul had to go snooping around police’s evidence to find a key, but luckily nobody’s caught him just yet, so he was able to jiggle the lock until it obediently gave out, a satisfying click ringing throughout his ears as the door opened, creaking open, like it hadn’t been oiled for quite a long time.

He let himself in, and as soon as he was inside, Paul shut the door behind him. It wasn’t the biggest office, but it wasn’t ugly or incredibly small and claustrophobic either. There was a leather, worn-out couch that laid firmly against a wall, under a painting that probably hadn’t been dusted in ages. 

John’s office was almost as untidy as Paul’s; here lie books, papers, and random files, almost like John was performing a funeral for them. Every move Paul stepped seemed like a building was falling over. He felt paranoid, dirty, as if he was being incredibly noisy, but nobody walked through the door. Once Paul was done checking his back every couple of moments, he made his way over to his client’s desk.

There wasn’t anything too extravagant in it either, other than a few pencils and a pair of scissors here and there, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He didn’t find any extra bottles of morphine that the police didn’t find during their sweep, anything too dangerous or toxic, no traces of blood or the smell of rotting flesh. 

It was almost like John was a normal human being, but Paul severely doubted that that was the real cause. He may have been defending John, however, he was on death row, and it was unlikely that Paul would be able to get him off of it so quickly. 

Paul ran his palms against the files that covered John’s desk. There were so many that Paul could no longer see the wooden exterior, and cracked them open, prepared to find something remotely useful. There had to be something that could prove John’s innocence. 

Bethany Velcher… Vaccinations…

Shirley Michael… strep throat…

Olivia Quinn… flu…

And, of course, there was nothing that Paul could put to use. Everything seemed to work against him, and worst of all, time was going by quickly. Paul was spending too much time in one place, and it was likely that somebody would walk in, sometime soon, catch him in the act.

Paul laid the files against the messy desk once more. He delicately rolled the chair against it. There! Much better.

Well, besides the huge mess, of course.

Paul wondered if he hit a dead end, like a writer when he would come across a case of author’s block. He continued to search through the empty drawers, starting to give up on everything he so wished for. However, there was one last thing.

A tape stared up at him, and the film still remained intact. What was this?

Paul collected it, analyzing it between his fingertips, the casing feeling cool and new against his hands. The date was rather recent, just a couple of weeks prior, and the time was sort of abnormal.

2:33 AM. 

Paul grasped onto the tape, his heartrate heightening against his chest. This is all that he needed, and everything was going perfectly…

Until the door swung open, and Paul’s eyes caught another man’s gaze.


	10. Day ten

Paul was frozen where he stood, honey eyes darting around the room, searching for his grand escape, but sadly, the windows looked like they were almost glued shut, and he didn’t see any vent that he could squeeze himself into, like one of those spy movies… The man looked about as surprised as he did, there was a deer in the headlights look about him, but the man could have equally said the same about Paul.

“Who are you?” The lawyer asked. Even if Paul had no business being there, neither did this man, who walked into the room like he owned the place. Paul felt like he had enough of an excuse to trespass, so he wanted to know this man’s identity. 

“Who are /you/?” Was the man’s response, invoking a roll of Paul’s eyes. However, Paul decided that he wouldn’t question it, and would instead answer the man’s question.

“Paul McCartney, I’m John’s lawyer.” He explained, and the older man’s features twisted into a look of confusion, the wrinkles in his face becoming more pronounced. 

“I’m George Martin. And who might’ve invited you?” The strange man—George Martin—asked, and Paul was silent for a moment, silently pondering, weighing his options before he started to speak once more. He doubted the man was much of a threat, considering he wasn’t yelling for security just yet. 

However, Paul could feel Martin’s gaze on the tape in his possession, and Paul wondered if this man knew what the hell it was that he was holding. Paul gave no response, and luckily, the man that towered over him to eloquently broke the awkward silence. “I wasn’t expecting anybody else to appear here just randomly, but I have a confession to make,” He trailed off.

However, Paul stayed silent, patiently waiting for Martin to continue with his divulgence. “I think Lennon is innocent, but I’m not completely sure how I’d go about proving that.” Paul’s eyes grew wide. Was this his golden ticket? Could this give him the opportunity that he so badly needed? 

And most of all…

Was John actually as innocent as he claimed? Paul’s never had such a case; it wasn’t often that he came across something as severe as this. 

“How are you even associated with Mr. Lennon?” Paul asked, and Martin’s face seemed to fall as the words glazed off of Paul’s tongue. Maybe a lover? No, Paul couldn’t help but doubt something as farfetched as that. Possibly a dad, maybe a coworker, but Paul didn’t see any doctor’s coat to back his statement up. 

“I’m with law enforcement,” Martin explained, showcasing his warrant that Paul had such a hard time attempting to obtain… Paul stared at the flimsy stack of papers, and they taunted and laughed at him. God, Paul hated police officers. 

Despite Paul’s hatred with law enforcement, he felt as if an opportunity opened up for him. If he had somebody who was on the force, everything would get so much easier for him, and he’d be able to finish the case faster than anticipated. 

“Do- do you want my information or something?” Paul quickly asked, collecting his belongings, and, subtly, stuffing the tape into his bag. He probably needed it, for evidence, and he doubted that Martin could make much use of it. 

Martin shook his head, and handed a card over to Paul instead, catching onto the fact that Paul was probably in some sort of rush, telling by the look in his face, the flushed surface of his cheeks as his heart picked up desperately in his chest. And, quickly, the lawyer accepted the card, rushing out of the room, and trying his best to remain quiet, desperately trying to help himself out of the window, and down the building he went.

* * *

Paul could feel his breath rising in his throat, his shoes making a desperate rhythm against the cement sidewalk, his world spinning. Everything about today was crazy, and Paul couldn’t believe he was going to such drastic lengths for a client who was, most likely, guilty. 

Everything depended on the tape in his messenger bag. 

He ran into his home once he came across the building, and he was happy to finally be somewhere safe, especially when he was in the slums for at least half an hour. Damp with rain, Paul shuffled into his office, desperate trying to grasp at oxygen as he desperately searched for that pesky VHS player. 

Eventually, he finally found it, having to bear hug it to get it on the table, which was a struggle in on its own. It was too heavy for him, but eventually, it was up where he could see it. It took equally as long to hook it up to a television, but Paul made it work.

He made anything work.

The VHS spit and crackled, the picture on the screen slowly appearing on his tiny, black and white telly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know VHS players weren’t made until, like, the mid-70s so don’t come at my throat
> 
> Also, if you enjoyed, please leave a kudos! It helps out a lot and motivates me to write more :)


	11. Day 11: Do you Think I'm a monster?

“This is John Lennon, and the current date is, what?” John began, glancing over at the calendar propped up on the wall until he was quickly reminded. “The current date is December 5th, 1962.” He explained, his smile growing further on his bloodied face. 

He stood with a pair of plastic gloves attached to his fingertips, doctor scrubs hanging off his shoulders so carelessly, small splashes of red decorating the surface of his uniform. It had been a long day, but on top of that, he had to film some type of educational video for the next group of interns. 

It was rather late, no earlier than about 2:20 in the morning, but John didn’t mind too much. It was usually when his brain was working and operating correctly; it helped him focus on the work that he was currently dealing with. The night was young, at least to him, and all noise that was going on was the birds inappropriately whistling, along with the crickets who roamed the night. 

“I think the time is somewhere between one and two o’clock in the morning, y’know, bright and early,” John chuckled, his grin spreading across his large face, nose curling as he peered down at the dummy he was currently working on. They only pulled them out when training was upon them, but John assumed it would have done fine.

“Ol’ Gerald here has a nasty case of TB, all that delicious, yummy shite.” He said, rolling his eyes, obviously meaning it in a more humourous way rather than him thinking the poor mannequin was legitimately a good source of protein. “I don’t think it’s too severe yet though. Y’know, only coughin’ up blood, spitting all over his wife’s cunt.” John shrugged, pretending as if it happened to everybody on a daily basis. 

He pulled a scalpel from the tray next to him, twirling it between his fingertips, and examining the dummy that laid beneath him. Although it was just for a demonstration, it still made John rather nervous. He’s never killed anybody, not even a doll with fake intestines. 

“Ms. Scalpel is just here for moral support if I’m being honest.” John chuckled, making said scalpel talk.

“Oh, John! Did you get a hair-cut? You look so handsome!” It was difficult for the doctor to maintain composure, his face twisting and changing to a dark hue of red, tempted to wheeze. He wasn’t sure why he found himself so utterly hilarious. 

“I’m glad you noticed, Theresa. Can I call you Theresa?” John forced the utensil to nod, continuing to make it bob and move as he made it talk as if the words were coming out of it instead of his own mouth. 

After a couple seconds of awkward silence, John continued with his intrusion, cutting open the test doll, and pointing to the organs—which were merely just pillows—and explained what each one was, and what its job in the body did. “Since the lungs are the most important part of our system, TB is one of the most traumatic diseases since the 1800s. It was the cause of many deaths…”

Paul wasn’t very interested in learning about the human body. If he was, then he would have been a medical doctor instead of a lawyer. However, even with that in mind, this tape was futile to John’s case. It proved he was innocent, at least to a couple of crimes that were listed. If he made this—what? Almost four-hour long tape, then there was no possible way. 

John was innocent, and here was the proof, swallowed by the small telly. Not only that, but John also seemed to be one of the cutest people he’s ever seen. Everything fit into place perfectly, right on time when the crimes were committed, but that still begs the question.

Who was the real connoisseur? 

* * *

Paul marched up the steps to the prison once more, but a part of him felt empowered, and he wasn’t tempted to throw up anymore, so Paul felt like that was a good addition to his newfound self-confidence.

Instead of ducking his head as he walked, Paul followed the guards once more, finally able to look at the plain, ugly prison walls with a smile on his little face instead of fearing for his life. This may have opened his eyes, showed him a bigger picture instead of a small sliver.

Paul situated himself into the desk, folding his tiny hands as he patiently waited for John’s presence to greet him.

And, as if on cue, the door opened, revealing not a monster, but a man behind it.

John tugged his arms away from the guards’ iron grip, insisting that he could sit on his own account. Paul greeted John with a small wave, but John’s expression hadn’t changed since their previous meetings.

He was still greeted with the same calloused, mean features, like a bulldog ready to charge. 

“Remove his restraints,” Paul ordered, and the guards wordlessly glanced at each other, but did as they were asked. John’s hands went up to instinctively rub at his now raw wrists, almost as if he was on a television show, playing a criminal, but this was real life. A real man was fighting for his life, and Paul was finally able to see that without his rose coloured glasses. 

“What the fuck do you want, McCartney?” He barked, and Paul let out a heavy sigh. With just a glance towards the men guarding the doors, they left, although somewhat hesitant. 

“I-“

“You think I’m a monster, don’t you?” John asked, his gaze threatening, and with just that, Paul was cowering in his seat, wishing that he was someplace else other than their current location. 

If only John knew what he did, then maybe John would believe him, but every effort Paul made to speak, he was instead cut off by the scary look within John’s eyes.


	12. Day 12: I won't break a promise if you don't

“You think I’m a monster, don’t you?”

Paul’s eyes flickered to the prison’s dirty floors, tapping his little heel against it to get his mind off of the intimidating question at hand. “No, of course I don’t.” He said, running his palms against the smooth surface of the table, letting out a heavy sigh as he continued to speak. Hopefully, John wouldn’t feel the obligation to cut him off anymore.

It was extremely crucial that John listened to what he had to say. “I found a tape in your office, y’know, earlier today.” He explained, and he could see that John’s features flickered to something much softer, more compassionate, but the apples of his cheeks lit up with embarrassment. 

Paul assumed that the doctor knew exactly what he was talking about; the fact that John looked so vulnerable, so scared, was a quick reminder that there was still hope that dawned inside of him. “Everybody views me as a tragedy, McC-“ 

Paul had to cut him off. He couldn’t bear to hear such a name leave the man’s lips in such a confused, fragile state. It made him feel guilty, like he was forcing a child to do something that he didn’t want to. “Paul.” He corrected. John glanced up at him, glossy-eyed, ready to break down as soon as the name curled off of Paul’s tongue. 

John was a person, and he needed to stop treating him like he was a monster that needed to be punished. “I’m scared, Paulie.” John admitted.

All Paul’s years of training, years of becoming aware of the manipulation and fake accounts of fear—nothing could have prepared him for the devastated look of a true victim, of a man who feared for his life, and lost absolutely everything. John was at rock-bottom. 

Tears ran down John’s long face, softening every distinct and terrifying attribute that the man inhabited. “Come here, John.” Paul beckoned. He hated to see such a strong man in a broken state, falling apart in front of his eyes. John shuffled out of his seat, and Paul followed suit. 

It was at that moment that John’s walls crumbled at either side of him. Paul’s warm, comforting arms embraced either side of him, and Paul could feel the lovely man’s strong arms caress him lovingly. 

It was surreal, how close Paul was holding a client, like he was seeing everything plan out in third person, but all Paul could do was stay where he stood, affectionately running his fingers through John’s thick curls, appreciating the bony, but broad structure of John’s shoulders. Everything at that moment was perfect, John was so warm—so tender. He wanted to be held in his arms forever.

“I don’t want to die,” John whispered against Paul’s neck, and Paul’s heart yearned and weighed so heavily in his chest. John held him so tightly, so close, like he’s never been embraced in years, and Paul felt like it was all his fault. He could have done something sooner, but all he did was take his sweet time, and he still had so much work ahead of him. 

“I’m sorry.” Paul ran his palm against the curve of John’s back, rubbing circles into the orange jumpsuit hanging off of John’s body, it so wrinkled and worn out against his fingertips. “We’ll get you out of here—with the tape, everything is going to be okay.” He tried to console, but John’s sobs were so distinct, so pronounced and loud. 

“Hold on, I want you to be more comfortable, Johnny.” Paul said, his voice still remaining soft, still unable to fathom how he’d live with himself if he were to hurt the larger man. He gently pressed John into the plastic chair, and helped himself into the man’s warm lap, comfortingly embracing him once more. 

John’s face buried into the pale curve of Paul’s neck, and Paul let him cry; Paul hugged him so compassionately, whispering sweet nothings against the flushed shell of John’s ear. Despite fearing that he wasn’t helping much, John needed him. Paul didn’t have anything to say, but the way that John’s sobs died down assured him that all John needed was Paul’s solicitous presence. 

Paul circled his legs around the circumference of John’s waist, so fondly wrapped up into the other man, caressing and appreciating every aspect that the doctor had to offer. 

“Everything is alright.” Paul cooed once more, smiling gently as John’s sobs slowly dissipated into mere hiccups, his fingerprints smudging along the man’s now reddened, puffy cheeks, wiping away his tears. 

Who was he if he let John die? Who was he if John came to his fate because Paul kept making simple mistakes? A man’s life was on the line, and it was Paul’s responsibility to make everything right. 

“Okay, okay. I’m alright.” John accepted, sighing, his face resting against Paul’s shoulder once more, and inhaling the vanilla scent that clung to the lawyer so dearly. 

Paul’s trim fingers ran through John’s shaggy hair once more, his pale digits getting lost in the auburn locks, his fingernails running along John’s scalp, and giving him a comforting, yet short little head scratch. 

“Trust me, you’ll make it out of this, and I’ll be here as long as it takes.” Paul mumbled, their foreheads resting together, and John’s arms so securely wrapped around the brunette’s wide hips. 

“Promise me you won’t leave me, prissy.” Was John’s response, and Paul didn’t even have to hesitate.

“I promise.” A smile slowly spread across the corners of Paul's lips. Prissy; it was a cute nickname.


	13. Day 13

Paul dumped his books onto the table next to his desk. Although he had enough proof to start out with, he wanted to gain more, become more appealing for the judge’s eyes. Everything had to be perfect, no flaw for miles, and despite the intimidation, Paul felt like he could rule the world now. 

He often ran into bumps in the road, but those sweet, couple moments he cherished with John were more than reassuring. It was enough to boost him back up, get him stepping on the floor rather than the fragile eggshells that seemed to circle around him only days prior. 

Paul couldn’t believe he was back in this noisy, cramped office. He hardly had enough room to think, but it was better than being in the—much—smaller office he had back at his flat.

He took small sips from his coffee, trying to calm his nerves with the warm liquid, reminded of autumn and winter, how nice the crisp air kissed his cheeks, sang him sweet lullabies, and pinched his face a lovely, demure shade of red. 

Maybe he should work outside one of these days, that would be nice…

His office door quickly swung open, revealing the tall, lanky man from earlier, causing Paul to flinch when he heard how much the door was complaining, so quick to pound and nearly making a dent in the ivory wall. “What is the matter with you?” Paul asked, nearly spilling coffee all over his perfectly ironed suit.

Martin was lucky that it didn’t do any critical damage, or else Paul would have to sue and be his own lawyer in his court case. There was simply no reason for the man to be so eager that it almost caused damage to the building.

“It’s fine,” Martin brushed off, making his presence well known by inching closer to Paul, maybe too much for comfort. Maybe Paul would have felt more inclined to believe him if he wasn’t so stunned by the loud sound that bounced off of each of the small, four walls, almost like a gunshot had gone off. 

“Where was that tape you had?” Paul rolled his eyes. Why was the tape suddenly a concern? It wasn’t like it withheld personal information; it was just a doctor playing house with his scalpel, and probably teaching adults as much as entertaining them. Paul nearly smiled as he marveled upon the memory. 

“That question holds no relevance.” The lawyer said with a shrug, and turned his attention onto the coffee pot instead, carefully pouring more of the dark liquid into his mug. However, Paul didn’t even have to look at Martin--or have eyes in the back of his head--to know that the police officer was almost fuming as soon as the reassurance left Paul’s lips.

“I need it.” 

“Why do you need it?” Paul asked, hazel eyes focusing on the man’s tense features once more. Martin shook his head, but it appeared that he was arguing with himself more than he was the smaller man that stood before him. 

Martin went completely silent, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, looking as guilty as ever. What was this man’s problem? Paul couldn’t quite grasp, couldn’t fathom what exactly could be the root of Martin’s anxieties. 

Maybe Martin was just nervous? He could just be passionate about John’s case, maybe Martin feared Paul wouldn’t believe him? 

“Well, since you’re here,” Paul skeptically acknowledged, trailing over to his desk, and taking a seat upon the wood instead of the much available, but abandoned chair. “Would you mind answering a few of my questions?” 

Martin’s mind was on nothing more than the tape tucked away beneath the dozens of books stacked upon the majority of the table. However, finally, the man slumped into a seat, and his gaze focused upon the doe-eyed lawyer’s. 

Paul reached across the vicinity of his desk, collecting a thick orange file, cracking it open to reveal John’s information that he was able to dig up. As large as the contents were, however, he found no trace of the name “George Martin” in its guts. 

“How do you know Jo—er, Mr. Lennon?” 

Martin’s eyes flickered everywhere but that of Paul’s. How was he supposed to get any information out of him if all he wanted to do was look around Paul, but nowhere close to the lawyer, who he should have been paying close attention to?

Martin hesitated. “I used to work with him.” He explained, awkward. Too much caffeine running through his body, maybe? Paul knew how that felt, and it wasn’t exactly the nicest feeling, being doped up on coffee, running on that alone, rather than sleep and nutrition. 

Maybe the room was just interesting, y’know, Paul’s little nicknacks and such. He wasn’t sure, but he often prided himself in the cute décor that considered his office their home. 

“Okay… and how did he act when you knew him?” Paul asked, tilting his head out of interest, but Martin unconsciously flinched, his forehead glistened with a build-up sweat. Did he really need the tape that badly? Was there something that Paul didn’t know was there?

All Paul saw was just a man and his utensils… 

“He was actually kind of weird, y’know. Didn’t know shite about what he was doing,”

Paul nodded, making imaginary notes, but they were rather flowers that he happened to doodle. There was an odd feeling bubbling in Paul’s stomach, but Paul wasn’t sure what he could have blamed that upon, what excuse he was going to come up with this time. 

Martin told him that he believed John was innocent, but now all he was trying to do was get his grubby little hands on the tape in Paul’s possession.

Unfortunately for this sad, little man, there was no way Paul would be handing over the tape.

Not even if Martin were to grab it over his dead body.


	14. Day 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> !!SMUT WARNING!!

Hold a gun to an innocent man’s head, tell me how it feels. 

When his blood curdles, what would you do?

When his heart sings, how would you deal with it?

When it’s time to hide the body, where would you put it?

The clock upon the wall rung midnight, but Paul kept asking himself these questions.

If he planted a bullet in John’s skull, he would feel as lost as he did at that very moment. 

If John’s blood pooled around his feet, he couldn’t imagine how he would feel…

The tape laid across the room, taunting him, reminding him countlessly of the man’s innocence. 

But Paul needed more proof, he was always such a perfectionist. 

Paul had gotten so far in his case. How come a sliver of him still begged and sobbed for a release? 

The gun was no longer pointing at John, but the cool metal was instead pressed against his own temple, and his petite finger hesitated over the trigger. 

The only person Paul had to blame was himself, he had nobody else to put the blame onto if worse came to worse, and John’s fate came to modest eyes. 

Paul was suffering inside of his own mind. Dark circles collected beneath his large eyes, and his hair remained fluffy, messy puffs on top of his skull. He just had to convince everybody that John wasn’t guilty. 

It was so easy, right?

Right?

He just needed another cigarette, and everything would straighten itself out. 

Paul pulled the last fag from the now empty carton, pressing it between his parted, pale lips, inhaling the smoke once the cherry glowed with submission, but it wouldn’t calm him as much as he was hoping for. 

He contemplated parting the flame with the edge of his thick stack of papers, but he resisted the urge. Paul was stressed, scared, maybe even terrified of the thought of John passing away because of something that Paul could have prevented. 

By the time the sun rose, he was still lurking behind his desk, struggling to make connections. Once the alarm clock screamed it’s annoying tone, Paul almost jumped out of his spine. He was so incredibly foolish to think he was getting anywhere…

When Paul managed to pull himself out the door, the sun had to be his uttermost enemy. Not that it was bright, but the fact it seemed much happier than him struck a feeling of envy inside of his core. 

* * *

It was the middle of the afternoon when John got home from a long day of work. He walked in, kissed Paul on his delectable pair of lips, and collected his children within his arms.

It was hard for John to maintain such an incredible attendance record, but he didn’t mind; he was saving victims’ lives, and that was enough for him to consider a privilege, something he could hold dearly and cherish. That was John’s prize. 

Not just that, but when Paul brought his loving arms around his shoulders, so warm and comforting, it always evoked a spark of happiness inside of John. Often times, those arms were the ones he struggled to break away from in the mornings. Paul wasn’t at all stronger than him, but Paul was so sweet, so amazing, and made him feel so secure, so safe…

“John, could you help me with dinner, my love?” Paul called out, breaking John away from the children circling around his legs, beckoning to be lifted within daddy’s arms, to be flown around like planes and praised for the utter simplicity of existing. 

John strutted into the kitchen, and his arms lovingly found Paul’s waist. Paul was a tiny little thing; he was small enough that looking over Paul’s head wasn’t at much difficulty for John. John favoured that about his husband, however. 

He liked how diminutive Paul was within his arms, but he was still large enough to give John a sense of reassurance when Paul held him close. 

Everything about Paul was perfect. To his head to his tiny little feet, Paul was absolutely stunning, and John wouldn’t change a thing about him. 

The children zoomed passed the couple, giggling as they struggled to avoid their legs, excitedly expressing what “form” they were, what they were going to be once they developed into something else, like a big, beautiful butterfly.

Paul was his butterfly. 

“Johnny, could you try this for me?” Paul requested, poking a wooden spoon against John’s lips, a small spot of sauce highlighting the smooth material. And, just as Paul requested of him, John accepted the sauce invitingly, smiling as the burst of flavours greeted his taste buds.

He loved to cook with Paul, especially when he would be fed such great things, served by his truly.

“I think it could use a little bit of salt, but other than that, I would consider it bloody perfect.” 

Paul grinned that beautiful smile of his, and the sun flooding through the window caressed his face so comfortingly, Paul’s eyes like two pools of hazel, ready to wish John a goodnight’s rest. John could easily get lost into Paul’s gaze, and he would be equally as likely to fall asleep once he stared at them for long enough. 

“But maybe you could use a cock…” John trailed off, and expectantly flinched when Paul playfully struck him upon the head with the end of his spoon. He could admit that he always ruined sweet moments with Paul, but how was he supposed to maintain the idea of innocence when he had the most gorgeous husband in all of the world?

Then again, Paul was his world, so it was hard to be his world and also be the brightest thing inside of that world…

It got confusing if he thought about it too hard. 

John glanced at the little brats running through the vicinity of their kitchen, a smile remaining on his features, but he secretly hoped that they would hurry it along. “Could you kids get to your rooms? Me n’ your mum need to talk about somethin’ important.”

They glanced at their parents, but they did as they were asked of. The key was to actually communicate with your children, instead of screaming at them and ordering for them to take a hike. 

John’s palms explored the smooth fabric of Paul’s shirt, a shirt he happened to steal from John. It dripped to his thighs, but John couldn’t help but find it sort of cute, in a way. His husband was pale, that was something that he could not deny, however, the contrast with the dark colour of his shirt complimented him nicely. 

“Hey, hey,” Paul warned, his hands resting over John’s, attempting to peel away his husband’s iron grip. John couldn’t be getting handsy in the kitchen!

“What?” John scoffed. Paul’s touch hadn’t affected him, to Paul’s dismay, and if anything, John’s grip just became slightly more possessive. If John had any doubt in his mind that Paul wasn’t enjoying their little—inappropriate—activities in the kitchen, he would have stopped immediately.

Although Paul often displayed silent signs of protest, John knew better. 

That and John simply couldn’t keep his hands to himself. 

“What about the kids?” Paul brought up, and John simply waived off Paul’s worries with the dramatic roll of his eyes.

John pinned Paul’s hips against the counter, forcing his tummy ever so closer to the counter-pressing against his ribs. “What /about/ the kids?” 

Before Paul was given an opportunity to distress another protest, John’s hips guided forward, pressing his cock further against the man’s backside, evoking a strained noise of arousal. When his husband’s cool palms explored his flushed skin beneath Paul’s sweater, backs of his knuckles kissing and caressing, pleasure shot through his body, like a million lightning bolts cuddling him and cooing sweet nothings into his ear—or maybe that was just the work of his husband’s warm breath, coddling him, already so deliciously hitched. 

“What about the kids?” John repeated himself, and he expected a response from the smaller man. 

John’s hand curled around the small perimeter of Paul’s throat, applying pressure, but not enough to interrupt the rhythm of his fast breathing, however, still enough to get a reaction out of him. 

Paul gripped on the edge of the counter, knuckles draining to a complimentary ivory tone, struggling to contain the whimpers and gasps trapped in his throat; they threatened to roll out of the comfort of his mouth—which John was definitely going to be using later—and alarm their kids, who were probably fucking off in the other room.

And with Paul bent over so beautifully, begging for his cock, for John to make him feel good, it became almost challenging for John to maintain his own volume.

John could tell that Paul was close, he always made the cutest—

John’s face felt warm, awakened by panting and the soft hum of the tiny fan occupying the guards’ desk. However, the panting came from him, not anybody else; not the men who laid on either wall of his cell, not the guards who had to run their fatasses down the fall because somebody breached the security system, but for him. 

Not only that, but he was sporting a hard-on from none other than Paul McCartney, the prissy, somewhat attractive lawyer who often made an appearance at the prison, searching for him, to talk to /him/. 

John attempted a few breathing exercises, turning on his side to distract himself from the warmth slowly arising between his thighs, but his mind couldn’t pull itself away from the thought of Paul, perfect, lovely hips in the air, making the prettiest noises as John pounded into his tight, pink hole, made him scream and beg for mercy.

John could almost see the thighs that would press around his skull, trapping him within the soft, plush slopes of his beautifully smooth legs, a prison that he would actually enjoy inhabiting. 

John’s palm traveled lower, exploring his tummy with the calloused exterior of his hand. He couldn’t resist much of a tease fest, not when he was begging for a release, and his palms seemed to have a mind of their own, wanting to give him the satisfaction of a high that would distract himself from the pain that was prison.

He rolled over onto the safety of his back, fingers delectably finding their way down the loose band of his boxers, knuckles wrapping around his length. 

Damn, McCartney.

What have you done?

Tight strokes vibrated through the base of his arousal, so warm, so hot within his hand, having him panting and grinding up into the sweet sensations, whispering Paul’s name underneath his breath.

Those eyelashes.

John coaxed a muffled groan down his throat, choking down his own mind-numbing pleasure with instead a cough, one that he hoped would somehow quiet himself and didn’t alert anybody just taking a glance around the area.

Paul’s lips looked so plump, they probably would fit nicely around his cock, and he probably gave the best blowies…

John gritted his teeth, gripping at the thin sheets, all the while he struggled to roll his hips up.

He would probably become so flushed, so bashful of the activities that John would perform on him, and the size of his hips was something that John wanted to explore, firsthand, for himself.

It didn’t take long for John to give in to the sweet bliss, and eventually, he gave into the wanton sensations, ceasing all movements of his hips before hot, sticky cum poured all over the base of his hand, leaving him panting and writhing against the sweat-soaked blankets. However, as soon as he came down from his orgasm, he sensed a feeling of disgust rather than the pleasure still running throughout his core, stomach still rising and falling in quick spurts as he licked his palm clean, both annoyed and repulsed with the taste that collected upon his tongue.

How could he let himself become so domestic when it came to this lawyer, a lawyer who was probably just seeking fame by comforting and defending him?

Yet, John didn’t want to stop. A part of him almost… liked the thought of holding Paul.


	15. Day 15

Tiny hands braced an equally small body, palms slick with sweat, accompanying an anxiety riddled owner, who was struggling to make a man of himself. 

The building's pipeline was wet from countless of rain, and it wasn’t the best combination when Paul struggled to climb the building on its own. It may have taken him longer than usual, but the reward was worth it. When he pulled himself up to the same faulty window, white walls wrapped around his vision, trapping him in enclosed comfort, and reminding him exactly what he was there for. 

Paul was determined, yet scared, the emotions wrapping so elegantly together and creating a commotion, a frenzy, of his nerves to respond into overdrive. He was starving, he needed nutrition, but the nutrition he was searching for wasn’t solid. 

No, what he was searching for was those medical records, the ones that he brushed off so quickly just a few weeks prior. 

Hopefully, Martin hadn’t gotten to them first, fucked with evidence, and made them difficult to read.

Paul was aware that the police officer probably spent much more time in the office than he did, considering Paul was only in its presence more than a week ago. 

It was late, possibly midnight, and Paul guessed that it was the best time to conduct his search. That way he could make his escape as soon as possible, and nobody would have guessed he was there in the first place.

However, he still had to remain quiet. It didn’t seem like an intimidating thought, but a part of him was still shaken up from the last visit he decided to make an appearance upon.

Nevertheless, he shuffled through the halls, and luckily this time it was a little bit easier to safely slip himself into the small, budget office, the fan still distinctly humming a white noise throughout the room, but there was a certain tone that hung thick in the air.

Nothing looked out of place, not even the plants or the papers scattered along the rotten, wooden floor, but it was almost as if an unknown presence hung around. Not that it was Paul, but something more sinister, something that made the room feel much rowdier, more hostile. 

But nobody came into the room anymore, so what could have happened between then and now? Maybe it was the tape that enlightened the room so significantly, but Paul wasn’t sure if he could place his fingertips on that suggestion as of right now. 

Paul shuffled over to the messy area of the desk, filing his fingernails through the pages, searching, and hoping like hell that they would still be here.

And there it was, printed out in big bold letters, displaying contact information, and the array of patients’ names and diagnoses.

However, he wasn’t searching for that, but instead, the sheet that could clearly display what side effects were most common throughout the duration of John’s patients, and he so hoped they matched and coordinated with the tape John filmed.

Multiple lab tests were done for an unknown cause, almost like they were sacred pieces of information that eyes of high importance could view, but here it was, lying before him in clashing, bright colours, only metaphorically speaking, of course.

Were peoples’ suspicions an ongoing occurrence? Some of these pages were dated back to last year, way before the crimes started to become suspicious and vulnerable to the law’s gaze.

With a firm hand, the government tried to hide whatever secrets coiled and blossomed within the letters, buried deep in the depths of the office, not to appear before anybody’s eyes. 

It was common within these sheets that he noticed the spike of morphine doses, along with the synchronized orders of said medicine. All patients obviously didn’t live through the immeasurable amount of chemicals, and Paul couldn’t imagine what percentage of their blood contained the drug. 

But it couldn’t be.

Paul’s hands trembled and crumbled the sheet of paper, unable to believe the information that laid before his eyes. He felt like more of an investigator than a lawyer, and with that, he left so many bunny-holes empty and on display for anybody who just wanted to take a dive. 

Paul put so much effort into his work, so he didn’t understand how everything was so masterfully laid out in front of him, almost too well. Even with his doubts, a part of him knew that medical records couldn’t lie. Paul wasn’t sure if he wanted to untangle more, reveal the rest of the story that still had so far to beckon. 

The case was on full display, her legs spread and showing just what he had been looking for, but Paul didn’t want to believe that it was real, he didn’t want to know that everything that they said was correct, and their facts weren’t flawed, but /his/ were.

Everything was playing in slow motion.

That is, until the office door creaked open, and Paul immediately started to panic. He gripped the file within his fingers, and made a quick escape under the desk, silently hoping that whoever walked into the room hadn’t spotted him.

Anxiety fell thickly into the room. The only thing apparent was the soft sound of dress shoes clicking against the wooden floor, so close that Paul probably could have reached out and grabbed one of the legs that attached to the man’s long, freakishly tall body. 

What was going on?

Paul shifted, cringing when the floorboards groaned and—maybe—just blew his cover.

Too bad the man who was hovering over him was so amazingly stupid, and continued to shuffle through the papers on the desk.

Paul couldn’t see what was going on, but he could hear the fluid movement of smooth printer paper, which quickly piqued Paul’s interest. 

What was so important that this strange specimen needed to remove, a possible career breaker? 

Unfortunately, the man headed towards the door as quickly as he walked in, leaving the door swung open so incredibly sloppily. Obviously, whoever it was, didn’t give a shit who found out what he was up to.


	16. Day 16

John stood, pacing within his cell, counting the seconds down before he could finally see Paul again. As hopeful as it sounded, a part of him felt like he had finally gained a friend, somebody who believed the words he spewed rather than having them enter one ear and flow out the other. 

Everybody was just too enlaced into themselves to realize that John was actually a human being, one that could see, hear, and had feelings, just like anybody else who wandered this cold, lonely earth.

Maybe Paul was somebody who could finally share such loneliness, hold John’s hand as they walked down the ghost-like streets, appreciating the sound of each other’s hushed breathing, bonding, hearts synchronized within their chests. 

Yet, John knew it was taboo. He shouldn’t have been developing such thoughts about the man who was struggling to get him out of prison; a relationship was probably the last thing that Paul was thinking about that given moment. 

John liked to believe that Paul returned those feelings, however. Paul’s eyes were always so inviting, so caring, like a mother to her child, or—rather—a wife with her husband, as John hoped it appeared to be. 

What if everything was false? What if Paul just cared about John as a client rather than secret lovers? He wasn’t sure why, but that would cause John’s heart to falter and crumble into his intestines, sprinkle dangerous, glass-like shards throughout his body, leading a slow, and probably extremely painful, death. 

Maybe that was just John’s imagination taking control, but as exasperating as it might have sounded, John felt like it was less a fault of fiction and rather the life that he was slowly starting to become accustomed to. 

It wasn’t abnormal for uncanny, crazily exaggerated things to shimmy their way into John’s mind. Hell, if somebody told him that he would have been in prison, for a crime that he didn’t even commit, he would have laughed in their faces, possibly spit at them in disgust, like the thought of him doing such a thing was enough for him to become disgusted by.

If only that thought became a reality. What if somebody did warn him? Maybe there was a possibility that he wouldn’t have been caught up in this drawn-out, tired mess. 

John sighed a heavy sigh, lungs filling with the thick, uncomfortable prison air. It almost felt dirty, breathing the facility’s air, probably the exact oxygen that crazies hyperventilated into their own organs. 

There he paced, in the small, enclosed cell, locked away like an animal, like a bulldog that couldn’t help his aggressive nature. John assumed that he was about as harmful as a rabbit, but to each their own, he supposed. 

A pang of anxiety rang throughout John’s ribcage, and the prison seemed a lot quieter than usual, but maybe that was just because most of the guards were taking shifts off, some of them napping against the comfort of their desks. 

The cells were clunky, always so noisy and loud, probably some of the heaviest bars he’s ever encountered, but there was a sudden “boom” that echoed, bounced off of the walls, and vibrated the entire hall. 

Which is, when finally, something caught his attention. 

A guard’s body collided with the cement, almost frozen floor, the silhouette of a woman, her chest ceasing with her ribcage, teeth colliding with the pink flesh of her tongue.

At this point, John held his body against the cage, attempting to break loose from the restraints, but nothing seemed to budge.

She was convulsing now, struggling to take oxygen into her lungs, as if it was a pain to inhale and exhale, her hair in dark wisps beside her wide forehead, her bun already messily coming undone from her hair tie.

John gripped at the bars with strong hands, wanting to alert some of the roaming guards, but as hard as he tried, nobody came to the rescue, nobody came to swoop the woman away like Superman. Spiderman didn’t crawl down by his web, and batman didn’t fly above the prison’s buggy headlights. It was only John, the prisoners, and this poor woman, who was currently seizing and having an utter fit upon the prison’s unforgiving floors.

“Help!” He screamed, but his voice was entrapped by the deafening, four walls, no matter how hard he tried to scream to the point of his voice wearing down. 

John only wished that he didn’t have to get into more trouble than he already was, but he couldn’t just leave her out there by herself, alone. She was most likely not going to remember the experience, but a seizure could have multiple causes, and some of those causes happened to be fatal.

John wasn’t a body-builder; he couldn’t simply break the lock with his bare hands…

Anxiously, John glanced around the room, searching for whatever could dislodge a lock out of its place, until he eventually spotted the pipes hanging over the toilet. Iron, but probably still heavy enough to pry open the lock keeping him contained.

The prison was old, possibly rundown and up for years, so it was easy to unscrew a loose pipe, and get it in his possession…

One, two, three, rough blows to the side of the stubborn lock, it eventually fell upon to the ground, and gave John enough time to bolt towards the woman still struggling on the floor.

He supported her head against the warmth of his hand, keeping it elevated enough so that she wouldn’t start to choke on her own spit. It was important that nothing was inside of her mouth, or else she could have risked choking on that also.

He hated guards, but John was a doctor, and it was difficult for him to ignore such a dying request, quite literally.

But when the guards barged in through the door, searching for the suspicious noise, John knew that he had severely fucked up. 

It looked bad.

A lead pipe next to him and the unconscious woman, his cell door sprung open, as if to say, “Hey! Look, I really just beat this lady to death!” 

The injuries blooming on the side of her head weren’t too helpful either.


	17. Day 17

The moment was surreal.

Everything seemed to go on around him intervals, slow motion. John wasn’t even able to muster what was happening, not until he was scooped up in the strong arms of a couple of giant guards, his ears blinded by fear, as if he was drowning underwater, and to an extent, he felt that way.

He was suffocating, and there was an anchor tied to his leg, the handcuffs secure around his ankle, acting as a reminder of the world going on around him.

Seagulls still flew, birds still sang, flowers still grew and blossomed. However, here he was, stuck in the musty prison, ready for whatever the guards saw fit, all because he felt the urge to help a woman who couldn’t help herself. He knew that the rest of them helped her up off of the ground, but there was nobody there to support him off of the metaphorical dirt. 

The guards were in a rush, practically dragging John by his poor arms and feeling as if they were going to be ripped apart from his spine, the feeling of fire shooting through his back. It was a daily occurrence, but there was familiar anxiety that racked his core, one of curiosity, unsure where they were going to take him, what they were going to do to him. 

This could be it for him, and John didn’t have any say how they wanted to punish him.

Forceful fingers wrapped around his bicep, nails sinking their teeth into the soft skin, threatening to draw crimson blood, but luckily, they got to their destination before John had to admit that it was causing him immense pain.

Here was the thing; never show weakness in prison unless you wanted to become somebody’s bitch, and John was no bitch. If anything, he would be the one who owned bitches, not the other way around. 

* * *  
“Ms. Ono, we can’t just send him back.”

A mane of dark hair cascaded passed Yoko’s tiny, bony shoulders, across her pale back. Her boots shone that familiar dark leather, ready to crush anybody who tried to stand in her path. 

At just a glance, she could have the guards cowering with fear, and she liked that, maybe a little bit too much. If anybody so looked at her the wrong way, she would try everything in her being to grasp at them with iron palms, have them dripping between her fingers. 

She may have been one of the shortest wardens, but she could definitely consider herself the strongest.

“What?” Yoko asked once the guards’ denial fell upon her ears, her head shooting around to gaze at the men standing in the doorway of her office, arms folded behind their backs in uttermost respect. 

She understood the precautions they had to take in order to confirm the inmates’ safety, but what else were they supposed to do with John, a prisoner who decided to go against protocol, break the locks of their gates, and insist everything was a mere misunderstanding?

Yoko wouldn’t let some snake slither away from her path. If she met John, he would be on the ground in seconds, pleading and crying for mercy; she would make sure of that. “No, this cannot do.” She insisted, sighing her heavy sigh, a satisfying click ringing through the room as she holstered her beloved 9mm. 

If John wanted to come in and wreak havoc upon her prison, Yoko would come back and strike as hard as she could, cause the doctor’s ears to ring and his head to spin. 

Yoko sashayed over to the table closest to her, collecting a pair of gloves that stuck out the best to her, and shoving her petite hands into them. “I want you two lot to secure him for evaluation.”

The guards’ faces visibly sharpened with confusion, their foreheads wrinkling out of curiosity. Although they have no reason to question her, she supposed that maybe she should supply them with background information. 

“We’re going to the loony bin, y’know, the one down the street? I think it’s time for a little bit of shock reconstruction.”


	18. Day 18

Thunder boomed within the gray clouds overhead, raindrops drenching the sidewalks as they continued down the sidewalk, towards the vast bundle of trucks quickly becoming larger as they neared closer.

John's case was a code red, nothing to be taken lightly, and Yoko wasn't going to give it anytime to waste.

A muzzle soundly secured over John's jaw, restricting him from any movement whatsoever, and it was difficult for him to speak, to insist that the cuffs dug into his wrists so painfully, but he doubted that the men would have cared anyway. 

Yoko was the leader of their little pack, and it wasn't much of a secret. She strutted around with her sharp boots, her hips swaying within Liverpool's thick, winter air. Although it was an overall terrible experience, especially with this mask digging into his skin, John couldn't help but feel a particular drawl of comfort hanging around his head, rotating like a carousel. The air smelled fresh and crisp, filled his lungs with piercing, sharp icicles, and although it sounded painful, John appreciated it to a certain extent.

He would have much preferred being a free man, roaming the streets to his heart's content, but he couldn't have what he wanted all the time.

And, the fact that he was being dragged around like he was some sort of abomination was quick to remind him of that painful reminder. 

His fingernails dug farther within the calloused palms of his hands as they walked, but that pain was more comforting to deal with the constant reminder of being seen as such a monster, a demon, that they felt the need to lock him inside of a cage.

John constantly told himself that everything they spewed at him was a hoax, but at the end of the day, he was still being punished for said actions. It was difficult to believe that the blood was on his hands, but once the allegations spat venom in his face for such a long time, John was starting to believe them himself.

Maybe he was a monster, not one with sharp fangs that could rip a man apart, limb by limb, but a monster with a nose and a mouth—and a face—and hair. What if the demon all along was him? What if the term "demon" was just something people used to protect themselves, to shun away from the fact that a man could inhabit so much evil? 

And what if John was that man they tried so diligently to reject?

The sidewalk that stretched for miles made John feel dizzy, and the snow that blanketed the road ahead of them looked like it was grey rather than the white he remembered so vividly.

Cherry droplets made their way into his gaze, flooding everything he saw before he was shoved into the back of a prison van, the buzzing of the trucks heat system kicking on, and strangling John enough to rob the oxygen from his lungs. 

* * *

Yoko shuffled out of the van's heavy doors, her keen, sharp eyes scanning the clinic lying before them.

She took it as a personal mission. If John liked to disrespect her prison's doors, then maybe he should take it up with her, face the claws that were her hands, and she refused to open them up so willingly. 

Yoko swung the doors open, revealing an almost terrified looking John, her fingernails tensing around his bicep and throwing him out onto the cold, unforgiving gravel. "I'm going to fix you up." She sneered, and John's eyes widened. 

She scooped him up once more, slamming the doors locked and dragging him up to the tall steps, leading them both into unmarked territory, ready to be used and traumatize John for the rest of his time that he had left. 

It was safe to say that she possessed no sympathy for the man within her grip. In her eyes, John was nothing more than the cockroaches that dared to peek their ugly heads into her wake. 

She had a rightful reason, too. She didn't know any of his victims personally, but as soon as he stepped through her doors, it immediately became her problem. 

Yoko forced John to trace her heels, following as quickly as he could, but it wasn't easy considering the braces that were secured around his ankles and seemed to tighten with each step he took. 

John wasn't sure what to expect. The green walls that wrapped around the base of the building struck a feeling of uneasiness within him. His heart rate heightened in his chest, dropping into his abdomen and causing a frenzy of his nerves to react in the only ways they saw fit.

He felt nauseous, his skin prickled, and little bugs felt like they were dancing within the base of his arms, but they felt like nothing like the ticklish butterflies that would decorate your ribs with feelings of smitten. Instead, he felt like maggots found their way within his system, and his stomach churned and flipped with every movement they brought with them.

This hospital was a lot less promising than the prison, and that was saying a lot. 

However, this is where everything became weirder than it began.

The guards unlocked his restraints, giving him an opportunity to freely cup his hands and try to reassure them with simple rubs, but no matter how many times it happened, nothing ever prepared him for the throbbing that accompanied his veins. 

As much as a breath John trapped into his body, Yoko had him against a tiny, green cot, his head almost grazing the wall behind him. 

Tiny, cool fingers grazed his hairline, nimble, and releasing the clasps of the mask wrapped around his skull. 

This couldn't be legal.

Everything reeked of uncertainty, blood decorated the doctors swarmed around him, but he wasn't so sure if he was imagining the blood or it was seriously there...

Strong fingers wrapped around his wrists, pinning them to the boards on either side of his head, and securing them with a dark, ebony belt, compacting his movement. 

"Bite onto this," They instructed, poking a plastic, mouth shaped gauze against his lips, but John wasn't so sure if he wanted to listen. He had a vague idea about the activities they had planned, and it wasn't the prettiest thing to ponder on.

"Bite onto this, asshole." 

John grunted, attempting to tilt his head away from the contraption, but with force, they eventually got his lips around it. Spit dribbled down his chin from exhaustion, but nobody was willing to wipe it away. Everybody liked to cower away with fear. At this point, it wasn't really a new occurrence. 

The machine bumping against John's head seemed to confirm his doubts, his utter fears, and nightmares. All of them were there, sitting behind him, willing him and insisting everything was going to be all right, but those reassurances were bittersweet. 

Wires pressed against his skull, but no matter a kick and scream, they never left the vicinage of his brain. 

All John could do was sit and wait for it to happen. There was no way that he could possibly break free and escape. Even if it did happen to work and he had a whole, elaborate plan, eventually, he would be found once more, and they would drag him back into the same routine. 

In other words, his brain was still going to get fried.

The sound of the dials became prominent within his eardrums. He was expecting everything they were about to do to him. How could he not? It was basically on display for him; not even a silver platter would make it look appetizing. 

As soon as the rods were pressed against his head, his body convulsed with the electric shots, hot needles running through his core, racking him to head and toe, but no matter how hard he tried to scream, nothing came out.

He was stuck in this loophole of exertion and torment, and Yoko was standing at the foot of the bed, a smile upon her pretty lips. 

She wanted John to suffer, and it made her especially happy watching him do exactly that. However, a part of her still wanted to help; she wanted to shut down that part of his poor, tortured mind, but she wasn't entirely sure if that would work out as much as many doctors insisted.

Yoko could only do so much, even if some of that included something that was entirely illegal and frowned upon.


	19. Day 19

Although somewhat anxious, Paul couldn’t will himself away from the hospital, feeling like the hospital compelled him to discover more of what it had to offer. 

Something about the paper in his hands didn’t sit right with him. John wasn’t guilty.

Paul folded it into quarters, shoving it within the messenger bag on his hip, the same one that the tape remained.

Once the strange man’s footsteps sounded like mere taps against the ground, Paul helped himself off of the floor, knees aching with having to hold the weight of his upper body, a relieved sigh leaving parted lips. 

Paul knew that he shouldn’t have been thinking about the plan he was starting to stir up, but it almost seemed inevitable. 

On quiet feet, Paul slipped out of the quiet office, glancing around the facility, in an attempt to calculate his next move. Once his big eyes saw no alien movement, he quickly made his way across the hall. 

He needed to be quick, and the thought of getting caught was a thought that he was terrified to imagine. Somebody could have already been behind him, waiting for him to slip up and laugh in his face once he was caught. 

Nonetheless, Paul attempted to burn the thoughts to the point of no return, into the back of his hazy mind, and instead focused on his current mission. The paper practically burned a hole into his bag, reminding him of all the visible issues printed along the lines, begging him to withdraw the information, rat John out because the simple lettering showed John’s sins.

But Paul didn’t believe it. 

McClean’s office had to be somewhere down here…

Maybe Paul was going to indescribable lengths to try and plea John’s innocence, but John was still his client, even if the evidence proved that John was guilty.

Paul just had to make everything crystal clear. He had to see for himself; he needed to see the head doctor’s reports. It couldn’t be right. Everything that Paul’s dug up didn’t match with the records. 

Eerily enough, McClean’s office wasn’t locked, and the door opened up submissively, showing him a—mostly—empty room, besides the exception of a few books stacked up on the bookshelves, and the large, green plants dangling from the ceiling. 

Although somewhat lovely to look at, it shot a feeling of uneasiness within Paul’s stomach. The room was almost deadly chilling, in a context that a freezer would contain. 

The plants dangled, and the floors creaked, and Paul was unsure if he was going to fall through the floor, land on a person underneath his dress shoes, and possibly kill them with his exceptionally large derriere.

File cabinets hung open, almost as if whoever was peeping through them was in a rush, papers crumbled beneath it, which was pretty tricky for Paul to try and avoid. 

Curious digits ran across the smooth edges of crisp paper, and almost like a stubborn child, the edges buckled and tried to block him away from his search, ready to keep him away from the information that he so eagerly was attempting to discover. 

Eventually, he came across John’s file, messily labeled with cursive handwriting, which seemed like a godsend to Paul’s hungry eyes. 

And there it was. 

It might as well have been a massive sign with fluorescent, bright lights. 

Morphine dosages were standard, as Paul suspected, and there were even handwritten notes written at the bottom of the paper.

“Positive recoveries, lowest morphine requests,”

“This man deserves the world.” –Number 98203; Michelle, Taylor 

Paul tugged the other copy from his pocket, and it was then that he started to notice errors in the fake compared to the reliable source. 

The text was greyed, and if Paul looked close enough, he could make out the barely noticeable white-out stains marking up the page. 

Paul let out a relieved sigh, satisfied to find this needle lodged between the haystack. 

A presence hovered beneath his back, but before he could react, a large arm wrapped around his throat, hindering Paul’s mobility, knees threatening to release and give away from underneath him.

“You just couldn’t stop while you’re ahead, could you, McCartney?” A dark, solemn voice whispered against the shell of his ear, pressure applying to his tiny neck, blocking his airway as he struggled to grasp and work for the air he took for granted. Paul’s face glowed a dark shade of pink underneath the moon’s symbolic, comforting light, freckled skin burning, from his fingertips to the tips of his toes.

“Why couldn’t you let it go?” Was the next question, and Paul struggled to answer, his fingernails biting into the much stronger man’s arm, clawing, desperate for the delightful oxygen to caress and squeeze at his lungs. Still, he didn’t budge, no, the grip got tighter, and tighter, until Paul’s eyes felt like they were going to press out of his skull.

Paul emitted noises that he didn’t even know were fathomable, until the strangled attempts stopped altogether, the world beginning to spin and darken around him. 

A loud thump rang throughout Paul’s skull, body aching with intense need, but his knees never tried to bring his body up from the floor beneath him, instead giving up entirely, crashing upon the wooden floor once more. 

* * * 

By the time Paul was able to muster up the right amount of oxygen into his body, his palms still lay flat, weak. However, when he heard the fumbling of utensils, Paul froze, deciding that he should try and attempt to convince that his attacker that he was, in fact, still unconscious. 

The office door creaked open, revealing the lean man that met him in John’s office. 

A few hushed whispers lingered around Paul’s head, and then the prominent sound of a door slamming greeted the air. 

Martin’s eyes met Paul’s. 

“Help me,” Paul whispered, but Martin didn’t budge, and his face remained monotone, showing no accounts of emotion, or the willingness to help Paul from the sorrowful ground. 

A glimmer of metal came into Paul’s view, but Paul couldn’t make out what it was. It was too dark; all he was able to see was a silhouette of a man, tall, lanky, but intimidating. 

“I don’t think so,” Martin whispered. Paul’s features visibly twisted with confusion—was he… smirking? 

Paul’s satchel was ripped from his body, but he was too weak to fight back. 

And the last thing that Paul heard was a boom, ringing off of the hospital’s walls, the world ringing around him.

His head fell upon the floor.


	20. Day 19 (Pt 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is more of a filler chapter than an entire chapter, so I didn't really feel the need to make it a whole new chapter.

Pete let out a heavy sigh as he trailed along the hospital’s corridors, longingly gazing upon the pretty apples they painted along the walls. If only he could be so free, only a spec of somebody’s imagination, instead of an underpaid doctor who struggled with something as small as his rent. 

It was almost two in the morning, but the night was still young. He always got calls back to back, and although some of them were stupid, juvenile questions, Pete didn’t have a problem answering them all. He wanted to make sure everybody was satisfied with his work, just so he would be able to get his paycheck and some dinner this week. 

His job was to make sure every room was locked and secured. Pete didn’t see the point, considering he was a doctor, not the fucking janitor, but he didn’t want to lose his job. 

It was difficult enough as it was, making sure that the patients were cared for, but of course, more work was stacked on top of that to make his job even more difficult than it already was.

Pete continued down the hall, his work shoes pressing firmly against the earth beneath him, glancing left and right, just to be sure that no stone was left unturned with such uncaring agony. He wished that everybody didn’t treat him like he was no more than the cleaning guy, because he was much more than that.

Pete had a degree, and that visibly proved his case. All the higher-ups treated him as if he were a child, and he couldn’t help but despise every second of it. 

If only…

Pete froze where he stood, anticipation hanging heavily within the air, but he didn’t exactly know what had gotten into him. When he tried to start walking again, however, there the sensation was, already, as plain as day. 

He tried his best to ignore it, but the closer he got to McClean’s office, the more he felt sick. Pete’s stomach churned, his head slowly making its way peering through the doorframe.

The sight in front of him was definitely not something that he could smile thinking over. 

It was quite the opposite, actually, and Pete wished he could just undo everything he just did and act as nothing happened. 

A young man laid on the floor, maybe in his early twenties, blood cradling each side of his head. Pete inched closer, a part of him wanting to help, but his injury wasn’t exactly the most… predictable.

Pete shifted onto the ground, his knee digging into the wood, examining the poor wound against the side of his head. Obviously, somebody had intent on killing him, but the bullet just grazed the outer curvature of the man’s skull. 

The boy was deathly pale, but he appeared to still be alive, his chest still slightly rising and falling. 

If Pete hurried up, then maybe he would be able to heal him up before Paul lost grip of just the smallest bit of life that he left in him.

Pete scooped the much smaller boy within his arms, being as gentle as careful, and started his adventure back to his office.


	21. Day 20

Paul awoke in a small, cold room, the scent cascading off of the walls reminding him of hospital visits he took with his mother when he was much younger.

He swore he saw her around these parts not too long ago, but her strawberry scent no longer greeted his nostrils. 

Where was he?

Paul attempted to sit up in the white bed, but he was pushed down once again by a rather large hand. A voice told him to rest, but all Paul could think about his mother, until everything started running towards him like a train. 

The headlock he was held in…

The false documents…

The tape!

Paul’s eyes grew wide, his desperate hands searching for the structure of the small piece of plastic, but other than a call button on the side of the bed, he came up empty-handed. No, it couldn’t be gone; the tape was the only thing keeping him sane. When he spotted a large man hover over him, Paul assumed the worst. He was nervous, and his hands felt clammy, but he was eventually able to relax when he realized the ivory suit draping over the man’s frame.

“I’m not dead?” Paul asked. His palm came close to the injury scraping the side of his skull, wincing when he felt bloodied bandages against his hand rather than the ragged exterior of his wound. 

Once the doctor turned around, it was quite evident that he was holding a small syringe in his hand, laced with some sort of clear liquid Paul couldn’t think of that given moment. “No, you’re not dead.” The man explained.

Paul let his head fall against the soft pillowcase, relaxing against the stiff mattress, but only for a couple of moments before the needle pricked his skin. “This is just going to help with the pain.”

Paul’s eyes trailed along with the man’s frame, and eventually, he saw the little name tag he was searching for.

“Pete,” shone in golden letters. It was reassuring to put a name to the man’s face, instead of just calling him a doctor and being done with it. 

Pete started to talk once again. It broke the awkward silence hanging loosely in the room, filled Paul with comfort rather than his crippling anxiety. “It’s a miracle that bullet didn’t penetrate your frontal lobe,” He explained, a happy grin highlighting Pete’s features as he ran his fingertips across the bandages keeping his wound intact, but he applied no pressure to the mark in question. 

“If it was slightly farther to the left, I doubt you’d be sitting with me here now.” 

Pete ran his knuckles against the side of Paul’s flushed cheek, assuring that his skin didn’t feel too cold or too hot. Although the touches made Paul slightly uncomfortable, he doubted Pete was doing it intentionally. He was just trying to help, and Paul recognized that.

Paul forced himself to melt into the mattress once again. Pete asked simple questions, like what year it was, who the queen was, etc. It took a few moments for Paul to digest the questions, but he was eventually able to answer them.

Every simple experiment caused slight discomfort, but that was due to the fact Pete was shining a fucking light into Paul’s corneas. 

As the seconds passed, Paul wondered how in the hell he got so lucky. Well, fortunate to the outside. It was hard to admit, but Paul was starting to give up. The stress was a lot on his mental health. However, the other half of him knew that John was still out there, worrying and waiting for Paul to make his appearance. 

“When can I leave?” Paul spoke up, his throat dry, words thick and worrisome. Pete took a glance at Paul from the small, wooden clipboard, quiet for a moment as he scribbled down something, which Paul assumed was somewhat crucial because he was writing so incredibly fast. 

“Your injury isn’t exactly the worst in the world,” Pete shrugged. It was true. If the perpetrator was a better aim, Pete was positive that it would have been fatal. 

Paul nodded, intently listening to the words that left Pete’s lips. He assumed that it was a good sign. “With a couple more tests, you’ll be able to get out in a couple more hours or so.”

“So while I’m waiting, could you tell me where George Martin lives?” 

Visible confusion contorted over Pete’s already tense features. “George Martin?” He asked, his voice trailing off, eyes glancing every which way in the room before he started to speak again. “I think somewhere down the road. Probably a few houses down from the large red one?” Pete explained, but he feared that it was maybe a little too vague.

“Why would you need to know where that arsehole lives?” 

“We’re just going to have a little chat.”


	22. Day 21

Paul continued down the streets, subconsciously tugging his jacket up against his body a bit tighter. It was cold, but his goosebumps were not the result of the brisk air. To say the least, he was incredibly nervous. 

For a good reason, too.

It wasn’t like Martin tried to blow off his head or anything. 

He continued down the road, fumbling with his clothing, and silently hoping everything would be okay. Maybe Paul was making a colossal mistake, and perhaps he was walking into sudden death. You never know what could be waiting on the other side, waiting for a slip up with a full set of razor-sharp teeth to feast among his insides. 

Paul couldn’t let his thoughts get to him, however. 

He was a lawyer, somebody who was supposed to show courage, bravery, fun shit like that. Or maybe lawyers were just pussies who lied to get their way; he wasn’t able to tell anymore. It was well apparent that there were two sides of the coin, especially after he went through law school, and there were rich kids every corner he took. Fucking wealthy kids and their equally as wealthy parents… Screw them.

By the time Paul stepped foot onto Martin’s alleged lawn, his heart had dropped into his stomach, maybe possibly his abdomen, if it was able to travel that far. 

Dogs barked at him, as if silently requesting Paul to pay attention to them, maybe they just wanted to chew his head off, whatever. Sometimes he wanted to chew his head off, too, so he couldn’t blame them. 

No matter what their intentions were, Paul found himself unable to focus on the furry little honk machines. 

His eyes darted around the area, anxiety coiling up his throat and gave him a presentiment of nausea, but he forced it back down. Paul couldn’t show any weakness; he promised himself that he couldn’t. 

The door creaked open, squeaking its eerily loud theme song, something that would make the birds cry, and his ears bleed with sheer agony. 

It was a little alien, for one’s front door to be wide open like a whore on payday, but Paul supposed he should be thanking Martin for such strange ways of living. It made his job so much easier, and the confrontation to be less awkward than he was expecting. 

However, that is, until Paul stammered into the house and the overwhelming scent of death hit him. 

Paul’s hopes turned into worries when he glanced around, little, white, slimy small worms crawling across the wooden floorboards, hungrily looking around for their next victim. The walls were eggshell, the paint beginning to peel as if the potent odor was starting to kill it, too. 

Life was short.

The realization hit Paul like a brick wall, like a twenty-foot drop into a body of water, leaving his belly exposed and raw to life’s disturbingly sharp claws. 

Life was short, but it wasn’t John’s time to go.

Paul’s eyelashes fluttered up to his eyebrows as he glanced up at the ceilings draped with the sticky webs, ready to feast, to find its next set of victims. And just like life, Paul felt like he was similar to the flies stuck within its host’s traps. He felt like it was his time to be feasted upon. 

The walls displayed a set of pictures, and it was hard to guess what exactly was printed upon those pictures unless glimpsed at closely. 

Were those…

John?

Exes zig-zagged through the holes where his eyes were supposed to be displayed, a fake smile carved into the extinctions of his lips. Paul never saw John in such a way, and it struck a feeling of discomfort within Paul. It felt like somebody was poking him millions of times with a sharp needle, poking and prodding at his ribcage, trying to fix what didn’t need to be fixed. 

The thing that they were trying to fix wasn’t him, however.

It was his beliefs. 

Paul knew deep down that John was innocent, but nobody ever listened to him. His defenses fell upon deaf ears; a blind gaze faced his facts. 

Roses pricked his fingers. He would bleed when everything he tried to speak of was rejected instantly. 

So beautiful, so inviting, everybody was, but so deadly, so hurtful they truly were. 

John. 

An innocent man. 

Everybody was so quick to judge and turn their heads away. His pleads were never heard of. 

Paul’s head throbbed the more he tried to think, the more he realized that this man was truly inside a cage that wasn’t even reserved for him.

The electric chair had an innocent man’s blood on it; the seat had his name on it, but the name shouldn’t have been John’s. 

It should have been Martin’s. 

Sticky notes read of the horrible things they were accusing John of doing.

Newspapers had dates, smiley faces were printed back with a red marker, and laughter echoed off of empty walls. It broke Paul’s heart. It was difficult for him to dwell on the wall’s contents. 

A heavy door slowly pushed open, revealing Martin, who was red in the face, but surprise quickly flooded his expression when he saw the intruder. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?”


	23. Day 22

Paul’s eyes flickered, almost terrified to glance behind his back, to face Martin for himself. Yeah, he talked shit to Pete, but to be fair, Paul would talk shit about the police officer to anybody, and he wasn’t too keen on accepting the factor that Martin could probably rip his ass in two with his bare hands. 

“Well?” Martin’s ugly, posh accent spoke, but it became difficult for Paul to process. He could just be in shock; the critters crawling across the floor, the stench in the air—it was simply too much; it was, quite literally, overwhelming. How did Martin stand to live in such filth? 

What if he was hallucinating? No, it couldn’t be it. He was pretty young, and he’s never experienced such horrid hallucinations before.

He couldn’t hallucinate a stench. 

He couldn’t hallucinate the maggots that tried to tear and eat away at the leather coating his boots. 

“I, um,” Paul stuttered. He felt like he was going to break down, at any second from now, sobs planted within his trachea, choking him and restraining his supply of oxygen. He wouldn’t be surprised if his head just exploded. It would have been better to explain than trespassing. 

“I want my tape back.” 

Martin’s eyes widened. His lips read of confusion, surprise—but his eyes… His eyes, however, mirrored complete frustration. Just from a glance, Paul could read right through the man—not because he was a psychopath, but he’s experienced the same amount of utter fear, the feeling of being trapped, like the ropes would never let go of his wrists; his ankles. 

Through the fumes that physically caused Paul’s eyes to water, maybe there was a part of Martin that was still normal, perhaps he wasn’t as crazy as Paul suspected. “No,” was Martin’s response, but his toned rang uttermost uncertainty. 

If Martin thought Paul would be giving up that easily, then he had another thing coming. Paul needed that tape. It wasn’t a want; it wasn’t something that was going to make his job easier and something they could laugh at on a hot summer’s day. It was a necessity, a priority, and Paul was getting it one way or another, no matter a protest, a beg, that would leave the closure of Martin’s lips. 

“No?” Paul asked, and the police officer’s head bounced like a bobblehead when he went to give Paul the most “reassuring” nod that he could muster.

The lawyer tugged up the base of his dress sleeves, pale skin riding up the side of his arm. Paul doubted it was as intimidating as he was attempting to make it out to be, but the way that Martin was gazing at him told Paul that he was doing something even along the lines of correct. 

At least, that’s what Paul assumed, until Martin turned his back on him. It was a physical sign that he didn’t see Paul as a threat, even with the shiny court case that he could definitely go about signing.

“Prissy, prissy, prissy,” Martin tutted, his head dipping to gaze at the cracking, dry, dirt floor, arms tucked away behind his back. As the tension built up between them, the smell seemed to greet Paul’s nostrils even more robust than it previously had. 

It almost made Paul choke and spit up his lunch, but he assumed that it would be nice décor, so he tried his hardest to keep it down. Martin lifted a hand, blue shirt riding down his arm, and there it was.

The tape.

Tucked between trim fingers, begging to be squished, like a tiny little bug that held no importance, but the tape was no bug. 

It forced Paul to forget all about the nickname that laced the man’s contradicting tone. Prissy. John called him that, but it held affection instead of hatred. He couldn’t know about their meetings, nobody did.

Could he?

The loose faucet created an ominous tone within the small house, if it could even be labeled that way. 

“You think you’re so smart?” Martin’s tone broke the atmosphere, ice cubes becoming mere dust particles, not given enough time to dissipate against the warmth of Martin’s hands slowly. The man that Paul saw as a friend rather than an enemy was standing right in front of him, caked in the symbolic blood of his victims, the eyes in the back of his skull staring Paul down as if he was a fine piece of prey. 

Martin was the fox, and Paul was the rabbit, but the entirety of this experience had Paul under the impression that it was the other way around. 

Instead, Martin played him like a puppet. 

“That’s rhetorical, by the way, prissy.” Martin reminded with a condescending chuckle. However, Paul had to keep reminding himself to focus. The words left Martin’s lips, and Paul’s head was under the surface of the water, somewhere where he couldn’t breathe, much less make out the phrases that Martin spoke of in poems. 

“You want this, don’t you?” 

Paul nodded, swallowing around the lump tangling knots inside his vocal cords, evoking mere choked breaths. How did he become so vulnerable in such a small span of a couple of hours? 

How it must look, a lawyer standing before the real criminal, Martin, sobbing and torn to pieces over a tape that seemed to hold little importance. After all, it was just a piece of plastic, but that small piece of plastic spoke volumes; that piece of plastic was John’s golden ticket. 

It wasn’t that easy, though. 

It was never that easy.

Martin’s fingernails gripped into the body of the—practical—confession tape. 

“Why are you doing this?” Paul asked, the expression on his face falling with despair, cheeks flushed to a naturally cold, dark hue. 

Silence hung loosely around the room, but it was enough to keep Paul on the edge of his seat. Eyes peered at him over a structured shoulder, a smile finding thin, chapped lips. “Because I love him.” 

Paul’s initial reaction was to cringe, but he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to react.

Love John? No, that couldn’t be. His pictures had red scratches gashed through them, numbers, dates—all written against the engravings of the walls. It wasn’t John; if it was John, then there was simply no reason for Martin to go to such an extent. 

“You love who?” 

Martin’s gaze was almost supernatural. It felt like his eyes were digging deep inside of Paul’s chest, twisting around like some sick kind of game. 

There was no response. 

The tape fell against the ground, hard.

Paul’s body lunged towards the closest decently heavy object, and the golden rays of the statue shone with the sunset’s highlights as it collided with the massive circumference of Martin’s head.

His hands trembled as the man’s unconscious body barreled into the floor, but Paul collected that tape, tucking it within his palm as he scrambled over to the landline. 

“Hello?” George’s voice echoed into his eardrum.

“I think… I think I just killed somebody.”

“You /what/?”


	24. Day 23

“Ritchie, get off of me,” George pouted, but his boyfriend’s calloused grip instead tightened upon his tiny wrists. He shuddered blissfully as Ringo’s soft lips collided with the side of his neck, feelings of euphoria skyrocketing up his spine. Despite his protests, George could only relax into the soft cushions of their luxurious, leather couch, leaving Ringo to do whatever he wished.

“C’mon, I can’t be the only one who wants it.” Ringo protested, a dramatic roll of his eyes, fingertips finding the waistband of George’s dress trousers. George always looked so pretty for him, ready to take anything that Ringo had to offer, and it was an opportunity that Ringo couldn’t help but drink up like it was a fresh, delicate white wine.

Then again, Ringo found George as beautiful as a bottle of white wine, so easily bruised, but so hypnotic, almost impossible to resist and not spend hours with. 

Just when George got lost in the fluid motion of their lips, the annoying phone on the side table started to ring, and, assuming it was necessary, George dismissed his boyfriend, and collected the receiver within long, trim fingers.

“Hello?” George called out, and the familiar sound of his friend’s voice was heard on the other line. Paul.

Silence was in the air…

“I think I killed somebody.”

“You what?” George’s eyes widened. Ringo looked visibly frightened, and the lawyer could just hope and pray his cold digits would help comfort Ringo, but it didn’t work as well as he thought it was.

“Where are you?”

* * * 

Paul paced around the tiny, barely spacious home, his fingernails practical nubs as he bit them down to the wick, but the pain wasn’t enough to faze him. Primarily not after he almost got shot through the fucking head and probably killed a man.

The front door creaked open, the rust against the silver handle drawing the whole scene together, and creating a blanket of terror where it laid. Everything was in place, like it was a horror movie, but it wasn’t a serial killer waiting to slit Paul’s throat behind the door. No, it was his old pal Georgie, whose face went completely white as he noticed the scenery in front of him.

“What the fuck?” George asked, glancing around the area, and Paul couldn’t really explain what was going on. George has been to his house, so he just hoped that the other man wouldn’t assume the worst. 

Ringo followed quickly behind, his own face contorting with confusion, mouth ajar as he scanned his bright blue eyes over the peeling walls. If there were an evil supervillain doing a dramatic laugh, it would have completed everything entirely, or maybe that supervillain they were looking for was the one who sported a large bruise upon his already balding skull.

“It smells worse than me grandma’s here—what the hell are you doing here, lad?” Paul shrugged. He was as speechless as George was. 

Not only that, but Paul was incredibly anxious that he would land his little ass in prison, alongside John, or maybe he would land himself a throne in John’s lap by the time they made their way to the electric chair. 

He couldn’t go to prison. Prison wasn’t made for prissy little lawyers, as John put it multiple times. 

Prissy. 

The nickname helped comfort him, but at this very moment, Paul couldn’t do more than pick at his skin and hope that everything would work out alright in the end. 

The maggots danced alongside George’s leather shoes, and Paul wasn’t surprised when the poor boy started to gag out of disgust. George always had a weak stomach; Paul felt awful for dragging him into this mess. 

“He tried to shoot me,” Paul explained, running an anxious hand through his thick mop of hair, only to have it bounce back in his face, colliding against his forehead in dark feathers. 

This entire time, Paul felt like he was doing something good. 

But now, Paul felt like the criminal. Paul felt like he was creating more harm than good, and it was because he killed a man who was probably as mentally ill as the entire prison population. 

“Paul,” Ringo called out, but Paul couldn’t listen over the loud heartbeat within his ears, his sinuses becoming all the more prominent as he willed back tears, biting back the pain that he felt inside of him, biting off the criminal that he became…

“Paul.” He said once more, but Paul shook his head. All he could focus on were the tears blossoming within his eyes. “Paul!”

The lawyer’s head shot back at Ringo, who was seated on the ground next to Martin’s—supposed—dead body. “He’s not dead, you dumbarse.” 

Paul shook his head, frantically. Ringo had to have been lying to him…

But before he could speak, Ringo started to talk once more. “He has a pulse. It’s bloody subtle, but he’s gotta fuckin’ pulse, so stop your yipping.”


	25. Day 24

“What’s all of this about?” 

Paul couldn’t believe what he was hearing. John and him—they’ve had dozens of meetings just a few weeks prior. Was John about as frazzled as he was? He couldn’t see why, or why there would be a reason for such a thing. 

John looked like a confused child who just lost their mother in the store. He looked lost, and it was the first time that Paul got a glimpse at his soul. When he held John so close to his heart and pet the auburn locks he came to love, not even then could he feel such grieve and pain that the doctor was feeling. “Why- why do I have these on?”

Paul glanced down at the shackles grasping onto John’s bare arms, his face falling once he realized how tightly the metal pinched and prodded at the light, barely noticeable ginger hair decorating John’s freckled skin. 

Paul had a gut feeling that he was just imagining their whole conversation, that the brass was inadvertently messing with his train of thought.

But everything felt so… raw, so real. 

John’s face was soft with glistening, clear tears, flushed like a little girl who just encountered her first crush. John wasn’t a juvenile, little girl, however. He was a grown man, in prison, with the blade of a guillotine dangling over his vertebrae. 

Paul, about as confused as John was, glanced at the two guards who towered over the exit, signifying that he wanted the handcuffs removed. 

This time around, John looked about as terrified as a kitten, even with the cuffs removed, instead of his supposedly confident image. He was so confident before, as a man with the biggest muscles, but now he was that ant terrorized by kindergarteners who hadn’t developed their sense of empathy yet. 

“You don’t remember the case at all?” 

There was a shift in John’s expression, a glimmer of pride shining through the terror in his brunette eyes, a moment of clarity. “No,” Was John’s simple answer, and it was one that Paul expected, but he wasn’t looking forward to explaining. 

“Y’know, the case,” The lawyer continued to awkwardly explain, but John didn’t seem very convinced. Everything about the man was different, but Paul couldn’t exactly place one of his fingers on it. “You’re on death row for alleged homicide, defilement, anthropophaginian, and countless other charges.” 

John sat there, wide-eyed, confusion visibly written across his features.

“For fuck’s sake,” Paul said with a sigh, a hand scrubbing over his features as he shook his head. How could a doctor not know such simple words? “Rape and cannibalism.” 

“Oh…” John cleared his throat, tucking a stray hair behind his ear self-consciously, his gaze falling upon the wooden grooves of the table. 

Three… Two… One…

“I’m in ‘ere for fuckin’ some dead bitch?” John scoffed, his face turning and twisting into a scowl. There it was. There was the John everybody adored to be around. “I didn’t even do it! Ye see these hands? They’re for alive cunt.” 

It was almost like Paul didn’t talk to John at all. However, for some reason, John seemed to remember him just fine, judging by how he spoke so crudely. 

Then again, that could just as well be the way that John talked. John wasn’t exactly the cleanest of talkers. “Censored” didn’t seem to conjugate well with his mind dictionary. 

“I still dunno why you’re here, prissy, but I s’ppose you can stick around if it means ‘m not gonna die in this shitehole.” A dramatic roll of John’s eyes animated as he spoke, and his hands found the golden crests of his pockets, only to come up with nothing more than dust. 

Was it that John only remembered things he considered necessary? He didn’t recall any accounts of dementia, but Paul supposed there was a first for everything. “You have a cigarette, prissy?” 

“I don’t think that’s- “ 

John cut the lawyer off with a hiss of his lips like a mother would do to her child who talked too much.

Weird. This whole time Paul assumed that he was the mother in charge of her unmanageable brat. 

“I don’t think I care. I asked if you got a fag, and if ye don’t, then bugger off.” Paul, inevitably, gave in, tugging a lighter out of the restraints from his shirt pocket, along with a small pack of cigarettes, and both were passed in the other man’s possession. At this point, Paul knew that he could trust John, even if everybody else in the world insisted that he was some menacing vampire thirsty for human blood and pussy that, apparently, he couldn’t obtain from his dashing good looks. 

John was handsome. Maybe Paul was one of those people falling under his alluring spell in the form of the fresh scent of aftershave and oranges. 

“Alright, so let me get this straight,” John began, clearing his throat before pressing the cigarette between his chapped, pale lips, puffing until the cherry sported an angry, red flame. The lighter’s light created a soft, orange light within the small, almost gloomy interrogation room, but everything was brighter when John was there. 

“I’m in the revamped loony bin ‘cause you fools think I’m a killer?” 

Paul shook his head. This couldn’t be happening; it couldn’t be just a circle he was running in. He felt like a tiny hamster running on a ginormous wheel with nowhere to go. 

“I believe you,” Paul sighed, tired hands running against his petite neck in an attempt to calm the nerves running through him like a frenzy of angry butterflies. “What happened to you?” He asked, but that was when he noticed something that wasn’t there before.

When John turned his head, he was missing a sideburn. Sure, it could be just a mess-up his barber did, but if that were the case, wouldn’t he have another one? 

It appeared almost charred off. It couldn’t be the work of an angry hairdresser. 

John tried to speak, but was shushed by the lawyer. “Say, who burned your hair off?”


	26. Day 25

John’s eyes met Paul’s. He didn’t look frazzled, much less annoyed that Paul would feel the need to ask such a thing, but overall, his expression mirrored confusion. 

“What are ye talkin’ about?” John asked, fingertips gliding up to explore the curious area, eyes growing wide when he felt the uncomfortably smooth sensation. Then, much like a child who just received a bad haircut, his other hand came up and caressed his sideburn that remained intact. 

The burn scar on John’s forearm has always been present, but Paul felt as if it stuck out more than usual. He knew what it was originally from, of course; however, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease. Paul was tempted to spill the contents of his stomach on the floor right in front of John, but he was able to swallow back the stomach acid burning a raw, open hole against his esophagus. “Jesus Christ; I s’ppose the incendiary faerie decided to make her second appearance, hm?” 

Paul wouldn’t put it simply, nor would he say it with such certainty; John didn’t even seem bothered. 

Well, everything starts becoming a blurry mess when you’re behind iron bars, so Paul couldn’t necessarily be angry with the reaction he received. John was an interesting bloke with similes that didn’t make sense to most people, and most of the shit he said wasn’t very appropriate. 

Ashes from the cigarette collided with the smooth desk, calloused fingers playing with them like they were makeshift dollies, like a new snowman on Christmas morning, only for it to melt that evening and devastate the poor kid who was so hopeful in its building process. 

Ashes won’t melt; neither will the fag pinched between John’s index and middle digits. Still, it helped to relieve the tension that was visibly circulating within John’s knees and released the movement within them ultimately. 

Paul’s soft hands made their way towards John’s face, cupping at the strong structure so carefully, appreciating the warm skin that lay beneath it. 

“Havin’ fun there?”

Who is hurting you, John Lennon?

Suddenly, the ciggie pressed up against Paul’s plush lips. 

And Paul didn’t reject it. 

His cheeks hollowed as he inhaled the calming nicotine, holding it within his lungs before it flowed out of his nose like an angry train. “You seemed like you needed a smoke, prissy.” John acknowledged. Paul felt almost warm, like for once, he could finally relax. Right now, it was just him and John…

And the mystery man who thought it was a smart idea to burn his Johnny.

Paul knew that work was calling his name, beckoning him to his office that became where he slept, ate, did most of the essentials except for the most obvious ones. But Paul couldn’t bring himself out of the stiff chair. His lungs were burning, and John was the only source of water he could take in before his head was stuck into that bucket of fire again. 

At the same time, however, John was the perpetrator, the one who was causing him an immense amount of pain. It wasn’t anything that he could help, like a needle in a haystack. It wasn’t actively trying to wound anybody, but there was always that lucky contestant that would get a piece of metal jammed into the sole of their foot. 

“You want it?” John asked, holding out the cigarette still firmly caressed between his fingertips, but it only took Paul a few moments before accepting it with open arms. 

“Thank you,” Paul said with a sigh, and all John could supply him with was a nod of reassurance. John’s adam’s apple bobbed as he let out a dry cough, claiming that the poor fag was just the devil in disguise, and Paul couldn’t agree more. Everything about the sticks was intoxicating, but that was probably why they were so deadly, at least according to the dozens of commercials splayed across the small screens of their tellies.   
When the cancer stick was a mere stub, Paul smudged it against the table. It may have burned a slight mark against the surface, but the prison should have thought of that before deciding it would be a good idea to burn a hole into John. 

Hopefully, everything was a huge misunderstanding, but Paul couldn’t say for sure. He collected himself from the small chair, but before the lawyer could leave the room, John’s warm fingers collided with the soft skin of his forearm. “Hey, prissy,” He wished, which caught Paul’s attention almost as fast as the cute little smirk on John’s face left the premises. 

“Could you check on Pepper—she’s my cat,” John bashfully murmured the last part, his gaze shifting every which way, everywhere else but Paul’s warm eyes. “I just want to make sure that she’s okay.” 

And, without missing a beat, Paul promised that he would check on John’s beloved cat. It was the least Paul could do, considering the treatment that John was being forced to go through. 

Paul made his way up to the door, tearing it open to reveal the look of curious guards. It didn’t take much convincing to insist /he/ was the one smoking the cigarette, and he almost let out a relieved sigh when the guards gave in obediently. 

“What happened to… Y’know, Dr. Lennon?” 

The men pretended not to know whatever the hell Paul was talking about, but he was sure they both knew very well what he was getting at. “His face is all burned up. What the shite did you lot do to him?”

Wordlessly, the guards grabbed Paul’s arm with a sudden force, and they were starting for a long hallway, murmurs flowing between the guards like a series of curious machines. 

They were too quiet to hear, but Paul was able to muster out a couple of words.

“Ms. Yoko is going to be furious.”


	27. Day 26

The wood of Yoko's pencil sunk into the soft, pale skin of her palm, the clock ticking on the wall like a bomb waiting to happen. It was almost as quick as her heart, tick, ticking away, and Yoko knew that her days were probably numbered. 

She shocked a victim, no, no—a criminal, against his will. Ono didn't know how many charges she could have been facing, but it was damn well more than one, much more than a couple tickets and misdemeanors. 

Yoko jolted up in her chair once the office door cracked open, revealing two girthy guards with a boy who had to be at least three times smaller than both of them. Maybe he was a man, Yoko wasn't entirely sure; his face was difficult to read.

He looked terrified, but at the same time, he looked pissed, a mean expression on his soft, boyish features. 

"You brought me a boy?" Yoko asked, her eyes trained upon the guards rather than the man they had tucked between their iron grips. 

"This is Dr. Lennon's lawyer, Mr. McCartney." They introduced, but Yoko couldn't hear them over the tangling of her vocal cords, narrow eyes growing wide with uncertainty, and McCartney seemed to catch her sour expression. There was almost a smile that shadowed upon the soft exterior of his lips. 

His head tilted into the soft glow of the headlights, and when Yoko got a glimpse of the bandages wrapped around the lawyer's skull, her curiosity inevitably peaked… What was this kid hiding? 

Yoko would eat Paul's secret up like a Thanksgiving dinner, and he couldn't do anything about it. It would teach him not to be such a snarky little fuck. 

"Set him off there."

The guards dropped the brunette into the security of the seat across from her. She would have most likely been intimidated if she didn't have the same questioning glint in her gaze as Paul did, but she wasn't scared. Yoko has dealt with full-of-themselves-lawyers, and that's precisely what Paul was. 

"What do you need, Mr. McCartney?" Yoko's professionalism sunk through her teeth like a train, more like a train of terror, its first stop being the small lawyer, but this time Yoko would be making Paul's life a living hell instead of the other way around. 

"I want to talk about my client, John Lennon. Y'know, I'm sure you're quite familiar with him since you tried to burn the hell out of him with whatever kind of fucked up tactics you use around here." 

Yoko would not lose to Paul; she couldn't. This isn't a game of cat and mouse, because the cat's already got the mouse between her razor teeth. His bones were audibly cracking, and the pearly whites carefully tore at the soft fur and flesh, ready to pounce on her next victim. 

So, Yoko just tilted her head in utter disbelief. Her eyebrows furrowed and focused, forehead tense with thought. However, sadly, she doubted that she would be convincing the lawyer anytime soon. He was stubborn; she would admit that.

Maybe he wasn't a mouse. Perhaps he was a nut that she had a hard time cracking.

Or maybe she was the nutcracker sinking into Paul's most vulnerable places. 

"Listen, sir," Yoko cleared her dry throat, neatly filing her papers on her desk to keep her hands busy, her attention focused on it rather than that of the man sitting before her. 

Paul wasn't much taller than her, probably had the same build, too, but Yoko still couldn't help but feel a tad bit anxious. Yoko was usually the one in control, but Paul's hazel eyes were quite hypnotizing, so soft, so inviting, but she knew it was a trap to reel her in. 

"If you wish to talk about my doings, you'll have to make a meeting. I don't feel uncomfortable speaking about my ideas unless I know you make a well cut."

Paul's eyes grew wide, almost the size of saucers, eyelashes painting along the beautiful curve of his eyebrows. 

There was no way this kid could have such perfect features. He almost looked like a woman, but who was Yoko to judge? She was just a warden, obviously. 

"You've got to be kidding me?" Paul scoffed dramatically, but Yoko didn't hesitate to shake her head. 

"No, you either make a fucking appointment, or I won't say shite." 

* * *

Paul's dress shoes kicked against the grass as he walked down the small alleyway. His head hurt from thinking so incredibly hard, but he was having difficulty pondering what the hell Yoko was up to.

What if Paul was too late? What if Yoko already planned on doing more shit to John by the time their little "appointment" was due?

Sure, Paul could sue her, but it wouldn't repurchase John's life, it wouldn't buy away the trauma he indulged upon. His poor John, going through hell and back, and he still managed to smile and joke with Paul about the most random shit.

Paul's heart quickened in his chest just from the thought of John. The man's name now made him flush, and whenever he thought he heard John's voice—it wasn't easy to contain his tears. 

A small, brick building came into view, and Paul's nails bit into his palms anxiously.

John asked him to check on Pepper, so naturally, Paul had to do as he was asked. 

After a couple of knocks, the door eventually opened, revealing a small blonde woman, who Paul presumed to be John's beautiful wife. 

A pang of jealousy crept into Paul's chest.

"Who are you?" A terrified woman's voice asked, trembling and terrified, but Paul kept his composure, both for his safety and hers. 

"John—uh—Dr. Lennon. I'm his lawyer,"

The woman's face visibly softened, but she didn't dare move away from her current stance. 

"What the hell are you doing here for? I already know he got his arse written with electric chair all over it, I don't wanna hear it."


	28. Day 27

Cynthia glimpsed down at her feet, and Paul wasn’t sure where his eyes were supposed to fall on. Of course, Cynthia was gorgeous, but Paul couldn’t help but feel awkward, as if he was out of place, and he supposed he had himself to blame for that. 

“He’s not guilty.” 

Cynthia’s eyes widened into a surprise of two humungous circles, her face giving him a glimpse into her soul, reminding him that the hope she buried so far into her stomach was still alive. 

But if Cynthia believed him, then it was going to be challenging to keep John all to himself…

As crummy as that sounded, Paul simply couldn’t help but feel the curdling envy in the pit in his abdomen, chest squeezing around his ribs, telling him, over and over, that his feelings were not valid. Paul couldn’t even imagine the pain that Cynthia was going through.

The door opened wider on its hinges, and Cynthia’s small, pale hands beckoned Paul in for a visit. 

“I, um… I just made tea.” She explained, but Paul didn’t feel like drinking at that given moment. What if he ended up getting sick and making an utter fool of himself? Cynthia didn’t deserve any more pressure on her shoulders as she did in that given moment. 

The blonde signaled to the plush, floral sofa sitting in the middle of the living-room floor, prepared with pillows that were slinking on their sides by none other than a black and white kitty cat, which was probably John’s beloved Pepper. 

“She’s a pretty lady, isn’t she?” The lawyer affectionately mumbled, a hand running through her thick coat of shiny, clean fur. Said cat tilted her head and invitingly meowed, which wasn’t the most typical when it came to these glorious animals, but Paul wasn’t complaining. Pepper was friendly, and if he were honest, she was a much better host than her mommy. 

Cynthia chuckled from the kitchen as Paul situated himself on the couch, and there Pepper went, making herself cozy on his lap by kneading the total shit out of his pants. 

Pretty kitty; razor-sharp claws—they don’t make the best combination. 

By the time Cynthia brightened the room with her presence, Pepper had made a fucking home into his lap, tucked underneath his shirt and everything, the whole sha-bang. 

John better appreciate the efforts Paul was putting himself through.

Especially with the world’s cutest, most-friendly cat. He was dying here.

Damn you, John!

“Pepper, off,” Cynthia scoffed, and she even made an effort to swat the poor cat, but Paul waved her hand away, instructed that he liked the cat’s appearance. She wasn’t hurting anything, and Paul didn’t think she was planning on doing so anytime soon. Pepper was a sweetheart. 

Cats ran left and right, but Pepper stayed put. She didn’t move a muscle off of the comfort of Paul’s house-lap. 

Cynthia inevitably let out a heavy sigh, her skirt riding up her thighs as she crossed her legs, disappointingly shaking her blonde tuft of hair as if the news Paul told her wasn’t anything more than bothersome. 

“Y’know,” The woman began, her hand gliding through Pepper’s fur, which evoked the loud rumbling of her comforting purring, like a motorcycle, but louder. “I remember when John and I were in high school; he brought me plants and such, told him that I was the only lady for him.” 

Cynthia sadly sighed. Paul’s face softened with bouts of sympathy, but he knew that he couldn’t do anything to bind their relationship together as it once was. Even if John turned out free of charge, Paul wasn’t sure if Cynthia would be able to stomach the fact that the court accused him once upon a time, or she would even believe that John wasn’t guilty of said charges. 

“And I believed him.” The blonde’s voice broke, her teacup raising to her lips to hide the visible trembling of her lower mouth. Tears filled her so visibly swollen eyes. 

John wasn’t the only one having trouble digesting the fact that he was being held up in a cell, waiting for his death. Cynthia was hurting as well, and everybody always failed to realize that.

“People stop me on the streets, y’ know, ask me if I’m the woman married to that bastard of a man.” Cynthia’s hand covered her mouth as if the words she spouted were ones she couldn’t even believe that she was speaking of. She probably felt so humiliated, so scared, knowing that she got manipulated by either John or the court that convicted him of the crimes he wasn’t even guilty of committing. 

“Look, Mrs. Lennon,” Paul began, but he doubted that the woman was listening to him over the sobs that emitted from the closed chamber of her throat. Cynthia’s skin flushed with pain, and it was difficult for Paul to speak when all he wanted to do was comfort her, rub her back, and insist everything was going to be okay. 

Paul rested a hand on her knee. Her eyes faltered, but eventually, they shifted to his own, caring ones, and Paul felt like he just made the situation so much worse. 

Cynthia looked so broken without her John. On top of that, she looked hurt. What if this lie consumed every part of Cynthia? 

“I’m going to get him out of there.”

Cynthia’s sobs stopped for a mere few moments. Silence hung in the air, and Paul was surprised that she wasn’t smiling, happy to realize that everything would be alright. She looked almost… Angry? Why did she look angry?

“He’s guilty,”

Paul furrowed his eyebrows and had to take a double-take, but before he could open his mouth to speak, Cynthia shoved him off of the couch, poor Pepper barreling over on the floor, and led Paul the front door. 

“Don’t come here again, you hear me? This is confusing, and I don’t want shite to do with this!”

The door slammed shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly don't know why I made everybody clinically insane


	29. Day 28

In the magic of moonlight,

When I sigh, hold me close, dear, 

Chances are, you’ll believe the stars that fill the skies are in my eyes, 

Guess you’ll feel you’ll always be, 

The one and only for me…

Paul’s heart was a drum in his chest. His hands felt clammy around the bowling ball secured around his grip, and it was becoming difficult for Paul to focus on anything else other than John.

And, well, of course, his throbbing nose that still ached from the day prior. Cynthia was a tiny little thing, but she damn well broke his face with a single wooden door to the front. 

“And she bruised my whole nose!” George’s eyes flickered to Paul’s, sharp eyes examining the noticeable, purple bruise embedded into the poor sod’s nose. 

“Can I touch it?” Was Ringo’s reply, and Paul inevitably scoffed out of disbelief. 

“No, you can’t touch it!”

The teddy boy’s face visibly fell, but Paul wasn’t about to give in to the whole “hurt puppy” persona. His nose ached, and he had both John and his demon of a wife to thank for that. 

Paul was probably being a baby, but Paul refused to acknowledge that it was actually a probable assumption. The smooth floor clicked beneath their feet as they proceeded over to the pins standing before them. Paul’s seen everything in the book, crazy men who couldn’t aim, small, little bugs crawling around on his shoes, prisons with doctors that are supposed cannibals, but for some reason, the pins were the only thing intimidating him in that given moment.

Maybe George should swing first, Paul’s arms were trembling too hard, and he would probably end up striking an old lady upside her wrinkly skull.

Holy shit, Paul wasn’t exactly the nicest bloke in the world.

Even if he tried tremendously to be.

George’s long fingers waved in front of his face, which immediately snapped Paul out of the daydream that he was supposedly stuck in. Initially, it wasn’t even his idea to go out, but George and Ringo insisted. They insisted that it will take his mind off of the crazy shit going on around him; however, Paul wasn’t exactly sure if he could say the same.

“Here Paul is, like a fuckin’ protagonist in a book, searching out clues and shite while I’m helping a middle-aged man with his taxes.” George scoffed. Paul wrinkled his button nose. A hiss summoned from his lips out of the affliction it brought him. 

“Maybe you should have thought about being a law attorney before sticking your thumb out all willy-nilly,” Paul shrugged, and he knew that his friend wasn’t too fond of the response, considering how his forehead wrinkled with exasperation. George was never one to plan out his decisions, which became apparent as soon as they grew closer. 

And here George was, doing the exact thing, not able to calculate his every movement and hitting the gutter of the alley, not even hitting one of the bright white canvases. 

George stopped his foot against the ground, hands threatening to make a mess out of his mop of hair. How could he miss the entire set? 

Ringo snickered under his breath and shoved the skinny boy out of the way, ready to show him how it was done. “Step aside, here, lass,” 

George rolled his eyes. He didn’t want to stand back with Paul. Paul looked like a fucking doll, and it was starting to become a bit creepy. His eyelashes were so long, and he was so perfect; George supposed that those were good attributes to have, which is why John—apparently—had feelings as well. 

George wasn’t able to see the sex appeal in a criminal, but whatever flips Paul’s skirt up and makes him happy or something like that. 

Ringo finished up. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to get a strike either, and Paul, of course, wasn’t able to get a perfect one as he had hoped, but for a few slivers of a second, Paul was able to forget about John.

That is until the song started to play once more, and Paul’s heart bubbled in his chest, almost like a snap of fingers caused him to think about John all over again. 

They hung their bowling balls up after a couple of rounds, but as they collected their shoes and headed for an exit, Paul’s eyes widened.

There hung his corpse. 

Paul’s.

Under his neck was a sign, a sign that read today’s date, and a slash to just a couple months in the future. 

George bumped his shoulder with a playful push, and a gasp of surprise left Paul’s lips. It felt like he had an out of body experience like he was watching himself hang aimlessly. 

But Paul was holding the noose. 

“Hey, what’s gotten into you?” George chuckled.

“C’mon, Paulie, we’ll go get you some food. You’re looking a little bit pale, darling.”

Chances are, your chances are,

Awfully good.


	30. Day 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's almost johns birthday! 
> 
> Yay!
> 
> Happy early birthday, bb boy <3 
> 
> I wanted this originally posted on his birthday, but I've decided to split it into two parts. I'm not entirely sure if I'll be able to post the second on his birthday, but we'll see 🤷
> 
> I also might combine this into one huge part, so if I do that make sure to check. Thank you for reading!

“How is she?” 

“How is who?”

“Pepper, you idiot.” John rolled his eyes, and Paul couldn’t help the nervous twitch of emotions filling his chest. To be honest, he hadn’t been thinking about Pepper as much as lately, even if she was literally the whole reason why Paul made his appearance anyways. 

Paul hadn’t gotten much sleep, and the hallucinations that he had the night prior made that pretty evident. Hopefully, John wasn’t able to read him so easily, wasn’t able to pick Paul apart like he was a body ready to be dissected on. 

“Oh,” Paul commented dryly, his honey, tired eyes shifting to glance at the dirty floorboards. The room was so quiet. 

Paul hadn’t noticed it before, but it was almost eerily quiet. 

“She’s fine.” 

John raised a curious eyebrow. His features visibly twisted out of distaste, but Paul wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to tell the man. 

Paul didn’t want to put John off. The last thing that the little lawyer wanted to do was piss off his client, especially a client who was most likely not guilty at all. 

“She’s just fine?” 

Paul shrugged. 

John’s eyes were like two beady death rays staring back at him. Paul could tell that John was angry with him, and a piece of Paul broke because he couldn’t satisfy the criminal’s—no, the doctor’s, needs. 

“I need you to look at me, prissy.” 

And like a child who got caught with his tiny hands in the cookie jar, Paul’s gaze slowly shifted and immediately locked with the capturing irises of the man that sat across from him. 

Oh, how John was so handsome.

It was embarrassing, it was, how Paul was so easily manipulated from the captivating glances alone. John knew it, too.

Paul was, admittedly, used to being the one in control, so when he was met with a dominance that outshined his, he got bashful and flushed like a newly wedded bride—and he felt just as mushy and warm on the inside as one, too. The tips of Paul’s fingers tingled as he played with the dry skin gripping on the sides of his cuticles, or maybe that was just his heart throwing a party in the restraints of his ribcage. 

Paul’s eyelashes curled when their eyes met. His heart was an angry bull, and his fingers were about as clammy as they were whenever he stepped foot within the prison’s unforgiving walls, but he was nervous for a different reason. 

He was wrong about John, and that was hard for him, Paul McCartney, to admit. 

Paul was fully convinced that he was, more or less, always right, and nothing was going to change that.

But he’s been caught showing his hand to a captivating doctor with the prettiest of eyes.

“Prissy,” John tsked from the corner of his crooked, thin smile, and if Paul didn’t know any better, he would have assumed that John was snarling at him; that his tone was contradicting rather than compassionate. 

“Have you been getting any sleep, darling?” 

Paul’s eyes widened. Was it that easy to tell? “I- “

John shook his head, cut him off with another puff of air, and his warm hand found Paul’s petite knuckles. 

He didn’t want Paul to speak because he already knew what Paul was going to say. First, the attorney was going to claim that, yes, he was getting his perfect 48 hours of sleep, and then, after that, Paul would tell John to mind his own business—either that or choke on his cock, but the latter was undoubtedly unlikely. 

“No, it’s not because of these that I asked,” John said, his free hand finding the chubby exterior of Paul’s soft cheeks, gliding a calloused thumb across the slightly purple skin underneath his eyes. Paul was so pretty. Even if it was somewhat apparent that he was sleepy, John didn’t mind at all. John was just happy to be around for the journey, and he was sure that Paul was about as felicitous as he was. 

“Your little nose is all scrunched, is all. You look so exhausted.” John wasn’t sure how he could describe it. 

He doubted that Paul understood what he meant, but John knew what he meant, and he supposed that was all that held any importance. 

There was a specific look Paul had about him.

His head dipped whenever he wasn’t spoken to, and his eyelashes fluttered over the beautiful puffs of his cheeks at any moment that he was given. 

John’s heart fluttered in his chest. Paul was trying so arduously, and that was all that John really needed to be at peace with himself. 

Maybe he was going to die, sure, but Paul’s efforts were enough to supply John with that emotional support that he so desperately craved. Paul’s actions were much louder than a million words. 

“Y’know, you look so cute when you’re tired.” 

A giggle left Paul’s beautiful pair of lips. John’s heart was quick to melt into his core, and it warmed his stomach line beyond repair, and through the pain, it was sort of bittersweet.  


The bitter aftertaste was only caused by the fact that John wasn’t able to be there for Paul, other than the few hours that they spent together in their little meetings.

The world was like an orange. The taste was sour, but the aftertaste was enough to make a man smile because it was saccharine against the tongue. 

Living past the sour was enough to get you a delicious treat. 

But, for this case, the sweet interior was none other than the gem sitting across from him.

John leaned forward, their breath mingling in the sweet heat of love, and their lips connected in the sweetest sauna that could easily be mistaken for a romantic, island getaway.

Through Paul’s tired efforts, John was eventually able to feel the sweet sensation of Paul eagerly returning the warm, affectionate gesture, and long fingers laced through John’s auburn curls.


	31. Day 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul and John get it on

John, although riddled with anxiety, couldn’t bring himself to tug away from the beautiful synchronization of their joined mouths. Paul held onto him with such security, and it was like a breath of fresh oxygen. 

“You taste like oranges,” Paul whispered. Paul said such ludicrous things, but John’s heart blossomed and fluttered in his chest like the most beautiful of butterflies. He doubted that he was anything more than a dirty man locked away forever, because that’s precisely what he was, a criminal, but to Paul, he was more than that. 

Even the smallest clementine would always exceed John. John’s self-esteem has never been the most superlative, but it was even less so as soon as the cold metal cupped the small dip of his wrists. 

“Do I?” John asked, a rhetorical, almost humorous tone cloaking his words, and John was just glad that he was able to snatch a smile on Paul’s tired lips. 

Paul’s lips ghosted over his, but before Paul could even get the chance, John pulled his head away. His poor Paulie, so hurt from the smallest gesture; it almost made John want to lean in and give Paul what he so desired. 

“Well, you’re a greedy little thing, hm?” 

Paul rolled those beautiful eyes of his. 

And, on cue, the attorney left the hard plastic of his seat, joining John on his own, and in the much more comforting base of John’s thighs. “You’re a really comfy chair,”

“You’re silly,” 

“I’m not silly; I’m Paul.” John scoffed, but Paul could tell there was no real bite that left John’s lips--unless the bite was something that Paul yearned for.

“You’re my little rose is what you are,” John retorted. Paul’s eyes creased affectionately, and his pupils dilated, but instead of lust, they contained nothing but fawning adoration. 

John felt as if he was never going to see such a lovely gaze again. Everybody hated him with such a burning passion, but not Paul; Paul was the only soul that believed in him. Maybe hell wasn’t his next stop.

Maybe John was already dead.

Maybe this is what heaven felt like. 

And just to think, all this time, John thought there wasn’t anything on the other side. No God waited for him, except for this one, who granted him the luxury of holding this perfect boy in his arms. 

The warmth of Paul’s soft palms caressed the strong curve of John’s jaw, and just like a puppy yearning for his owner’s affection, John’s head met the curve of the attorney’s shoulder. 

For a moment, it was just him and Paul. The world didn’t exist when he was with Paul. In fact, Paul was his world, but Paul wasn’t the cruel universe that wished such horrible things for him. 

Such sweet caresses, warm kisses, the universe could never compare. 

Paul was the world, and John was the moon because all John wanted to do was aimlessly rotate around the earth. 

“You’re so perfect,” John whispered against the cool, soft skin of Paul’s neck, where he let his warm lips hover and plant kisses as they pleased. 

He felt the lawyer tense,

But in just a couple anxious moments, Paul’s shoulders slumped, and his skin elegantly decorated with kisses of a million butterflies—aka his skin dotted with goosebumps that only John was able to strike him with. 

A blissful breath left Paul’s throat. Little fingers trembled in the confusing forest of John’s messy hair, but they soon curled, his neck craning to allow more room, wishing—begging—that John never stop the rapturous assault. 

“Are you sure this is okay?” 

The honey of Paul’s eyes revealed when the prison of his eyelashes crept open, and, judging by the desperation of Paul’s whines, John wasn’t pressing any buttons that made Paul feel unquestionably conscious of. 

“Of course.” 

John grinned, his smile so vast that it caused a soft glimmer of wrinkles around his eyes. He, of course, was going to be as benevolent as his large hands could manage, knowing that the love of his life was a sensitive little thing, that and he was still a fatigued little bunny, but a bunny of joy that he was. 

His fingertips traveled beneath the frilly exterior of Paul’s dress shirt, palms exploring the soft ridges of the lawyer’s ribcage, a metaphorical trail of pecks testing the pale, smooth skin, curious, craving only the most diplomatic patches of Paul’s skin. 

“C’mon, get it off,” Paul impatiently requested, but John was afraid that they wouldn’t have enough time for all that Paul wanted. 

John wanted to make love to Paul, and although nervous, he knew that he couldn’t wait much longer than now.

A soft, warm mattress was likely ideal, but unfortunately, neither he nor Paul could be granted such a privilege. “I’m sorry, baby; ‘think we might have to keep it on.” 

That, unsurprisingly, earned John a small, demure twist of Paul’s delicate features, almost as if he was annoyed that he wasn’t getting his way.

John snickered.

What a brat. 

“But Johnny,” Paul requested, but John shut down the small retort almost immediately. 

“But Paulie,” 

Paul’s little cheeks dinted with those cute dimples of his. 

John’s hands found the curves of Paul’s ample thighs, rubbing patterns into the soft fabric of his work slacks, but he purposefully avoided his southern regions, just to tease. Still, he doubted that the lawyer was going to start begging for him.

It would be /incredibly/ hot, but a man could only hope and dream. 

Maybe John would get Paul to beg with his beautiful lips around the base of his cock…

Well, that was a story for another time.

If there will be another time, that is. 

Somewhat eagerly, Paul’s nimble fingers found his belt, and the look within his eyes was most likely due to libido, but John didn’t see it unappealing nonetheless. 

Paul was a horny little fuck, but John supposed that’s why he liked him so much.

At least dream Paul was a horny little fuck. 

Panting, Paul led John’s hand down the waistband of his trousers, but the fabric that laid against John’s hand was nothing that he felt before—at least not on a man.

“Are you wearing knickers?”

Paul’s cheeks flushed, and his eyes scattered along with the tile instead of John’s gaze.

“Maybe…”

“Jesus Christ,” John whispered beneath the fast pace of his breathing, but supplied Paul with the tight strokes that he was beckoning, desperate to get some sort of release. He couldn’t blame Paul, or maybe Paul was just too beautiful, and John didn’t care wanking him off once and a while. 

“Shag me?” Paul mumbled, pouting as if John’s dick was the only form of release. Who knew, maybe it was? John’s cock was amazing, after all. 

“We don’t have any lube,” 

Without missing a beat, Paul grasped at John’s available wrist, flirtatiously sucking down the base of John’s fingers in the sluttiest way possible, skin flushed a dark hue of pinks and reds, begging with his pair of beautiful eyes. 

“Stick it in me.” Paul hiked himself upon his knees, barely hanging onto the small, plastic chair, but still having enough balance to keep himself from falling over flat on his face.

“Right now?” 

John’s hand found the lace of Paul’s knickers again, a digit sliding through the boy’s entrance, curling in an attempt to play with the bundle of nerves, leaving Paul breathless and desperately trying to trap delectable accounts of oxygen in his lungs. 

Paul had the prettiest face, even if he was utterly spent, and the scent of clean sweat and vanilla was quickly established, but John was sure it would look even prettier with his cum all over it. 

And the knickers tied it together like a nicely made present. 

“I think ‘m gonna fuck you in ‘em,” 

Paul gasped. His fingernails dented soft crescent moon shapes through the thick fabric of John’s orange jumper, and Paul’s hips bucked submissively into the thick air, wanting nothing more than to feel John instead of the teasing strokes of his fingertips. 

“Oh, please,” Paul requested, whimpering as he ground his waist down, hips spurting and trembling. 

It was hard for John to deny such a lovely request. 

“Do you want me to, um..” 

Paul’s eyes shifted to the man’s pants, but John was too desperate on his own account to agree. Paul was such a sweetheart. 

Unfortunately, Paul didn’t take well to “no.”

Paul struggled to pull John’s trousers passed his thighs, but eventually, he was able to get them off, mouth ajar and lips plump, fingers giving John’s length fast, uneven pumps, aiming to tease John as the man did him.

“Okay, okay, I get the fuckin’ point,” John griped, and the fact that John so easily gave in was enough to satisfy Paul and influence him to tug his hand away. John possessively gripped at the soft curves of Paul’s hips, wanting him finally on his cock, but the little scrunches of Paul’s face told John that he needed to be a bit more patient. 

It was a difficult task; John wanted to so eagerly fuck up into the warm cavern around him, but he could resist such urges and allow Paul those few moments that he needed. “You’re not that big.” Paul teased, and John couldn’t help but scrunch his nose.

“Excuse me?”

Paul shrugged, refraining from bursting out in giggles.

“You’re not,” 

“But you’re the one grimacing like ‘m tearing you in half.” 

Paul swiftly rolled his hips down, reminding John that he was the one in control, which was a quick realization to John when his fingernails bit into the pale skin of Paul’s waist. 

“You’re a sod.” 

Paul tipped John’s chin sweetly and let their lips find one another’s once more, a reminder that not everything had to be rushed, but quick enough to make John crave the feeling of Paul bouncing on his lap. 

Paul’s mouth opened around another witty comment, but was quickly cut off by the belligerent grip that John grasped onto him with, the feeling of ecstasy racking Paul’s spine as he was fucked up into, and he so effortlessly pounded into the lawyer’s prostate—

/heaven. /

“You’ve got a big mouth, y’know that?” 

Paul’s response was only a whimper and an attempt to roll his hips down, but unfortunately, John’s grip was too restrictive. 

It wasn’t like John was just talking shit. Paul talked a lot, and he made a lot of noise, but hopefully not as much that it alerted the guards behind the steel doors. 

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the quaint room, along with Paul’s quiet whimpers and moans, the occasional rotation of Paul’s hips forcing a breath of relief from John’s pursed lips…

Paul’s orgasm hit him like a truck, too powerful to give him a second to alert the bigger man, but enough to cause his lips to twitch and purse against a high pitched moan, thighs a trembling mess by the time the lawyer made a mess all over his shirt and John’s alike.

John, of course, wasn’t that far behind, the rotations of his hips lessening and irregular as his high hit him, head falling back, but the chair was much too small to support it. 

The room falling quiet once more, Paul slowly lifted his waist, John’s… Cum freshly rolling down his thigh, which John had to force himself not to look at it, or else he would get worked up all over again.

“Pervert.”

John rolled his eyes.

“Oh, fuck off. You came onto me, prissy. Figuratively and literally.”


	32. Day 31

It was early in the morning.

Four, maybe five in the morning, when Paul was barreling out of the mess of his comforter, collapsing on the hard wood floor once the blanket secured around the small bone of his ankle. As hard as he tried not to make a mess over the floor, bile ran up his throat, rubbing the thick skin raw until the contents of his stomach poured all over the wooden floorboards. 

Cheeks flushed, Paul attempted to press back, comforted by the cool wall, but sadly, that was the mere calm before the storm. 

His stomach churned, but it gave him enough lee-way so he could practically throw himself into the small bathroom, choking on his own vomit as he was throwing up once more, his nails creasing into the soft, pale palms of his hands. 

Paul hoped and prayed that he couldn’t get some bizarre stomach bug before his meeting with Ringo and George. The court date he scheduled wasn’t too far away, and he needed to know as much as possible before the big day. 

But how was he supposed to do such a thing when he was working up a cold sweat, all hot and gross above his poor toilet, which had to deal with all of this bullshit? 

Not to mention the floor near his bed…

Running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, Paul attempted to swallow back as much as he could, afraid to look like a total piece of shit, even if it was him and Martha who only accompanied the home. 

Paul needed to pull himself together. Not for himself, but for John. Sure, he may have been coming down with an underlying disease, but he still had a job to attend to, and there wasn’t any amount of sick days that could simply cover such a thing. 

He washed up, cleaned his trembling hands off of their filth, and then he started on the absolute wreck he made of the floor. Unfortunately, Paul had didn’t have any doubt in his mind that he would be tossing and turning for the rest of the morning, silently waiting in his own filth for his two friends.

* * *

“Paulie,” 

The name felt foggy within Paul’s eardrums, but the long, thick prison of his eyelashes refused to pay them any attention. 

Just a few more minutes; all he needed was a couple more minutes…

“Paulie!” A few voices circulated around Paul’s skull and squeezed him in such a way that Paul felt like he was about to get sick all over again. After a mere few moments of silence, strong hands wrapped around his small arms, causing a whine to emit from the fluffy exterior of his lips.

“What?” Paul whined, his eyes barely opening to see the two of his idiot friends standing there with such eagerness. Still, that sudden, blatant amount of fervor twisted into consternation, and a whole conversation seemed to go on in the world around Paul, like an annoying squeak that he couldn’t quite conjugate. It was almost like Paul was hearing a different language spoken to him, but he didn’t think his friends learned a new language by the span of a couple of days.

“You look sick there, lad,” Ringo mentioned, his hand coming in contact with Paul’s flushed cheeks, a snicker leaving his mate’s lips as he observed the chubby patch of skin slightly jiggle. 

“Y’know, like you have the plague or some shite.” 

Ringo earned himself a roll of Paul's eyes, but a much more brutal outcome from George—a light slap to the bicep. “Don’t be mean to the poor thing! He just needs some food in his system.” 

“Maybe a bullet to the head, is more like it,” 

“Ah, that’s already happened,” Paul tutted. He could read the confusion on their faces, but Paul was positive both of them understood what the hell he was talking about.

George was the one who babied him as soon as he found out about the tragic accident, and he was the one who changed the bandages when they got dirty, even if Paul was more than capable of doing so. 

Ringo furrowed his eyebrows, forehead wrinkling out of concern. “Maybe we should take him to the hospital?” He turned to his boyfriend for closure, and, unfortunately, to Paul’s dismay, the skinny lad seemed to agree, maybe too eagerly.

They were going to be the death of him, probably.

“Get him, then. Let’s go.”


	33. Day 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I like writing smut so here's some more <3 :)

A smirk clouded Paul’s vision. 

Hands explored the softness of his body and hitched breathing alerted the lawyer, drawing him from his dazed state, and Paul was forced to swallow the big pill that was, alarmingly, lust, and there was John, in plain sight, rocking his body with only the most pleasant feelings…

“Shite, you look so pretty like that, Prissy,” John whispered in huffed, pleasurable panting, his fingernails sinking into the curves of Paul’s waist.

But with the kisses of love, there was something sinister, and Paul found himself choking around his breaths and whines of need—desperation. John’s eyes bit into him like two frozen icicles, like a snake hunting down that sad little mouse just trying to make a living, but there was something attractive about it.

A devil in disguise.

There was a sudden shift of John’s movements, and Paul’s sweet spot was suddenly getting abused, strong arms embracing the petite curves of the attorney’s wrists, exposing him for the whole world to see. 

Such a lustful look, demanding and wanton, and Paul felt so corrupt, but at the same time, Paul couldn’t help but wish for more.

Desperate moans tripled off of Paul’s flush tongue, a string of curses coating his vocal cords like a besotted sailor. Paul wanted him, but that want quickly became desperation, a need for John’s cock, John’s everything.

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” Was the string that toppled out of Paul’s glossy, desirous lips, his nails tearing poor John’s freckled back into shreds, but John didn’t seem to care. All he was worried about was getting Paul to that high, over and over again, until Paul was begging for it to stop…

John’s auburn curls were a messy slur of exhaustion on the top of his head, sticking to his forehead due to the sweat building up near his hairline, but Paul couldn’t help to find it rather attractive, especially on somebody as sexy and lovely as John.

“Fuck, you’ve got a wet cunt,” 

Bewildered, Paul glanced between his thighs, and as John quoted, there it was, a flushed piece of flesh staring back at him, coating his legs with a thin sheen of arousal, throbbing and weeping for the intrusion. Although confused, the thought was quickly pushed to the back of his skull when John’s calloused fingertips did quick work against the bud sitting between Paul’s femur. 

“Oh shite,” Paul’s eyes threatened to roll in the comfort of his skull, but he forced himself to gain composure, wanting every moment to last, to hear the rough panting of John’s laboured breathing. The sound of skin against skin wrapped around the small room—a room Paul wasn’t familiar with—but Paul couldn’t have cared less, not when John’s cock pounded into him so deliberately…

But the sweet sensation of John was replaced by something less captivating, and the citrus scent gripping every part of the doctor was no longer there. 

Hips glided with his, and Paul’s newly found organ was still where it laid, but they weren’t the same pair of hips that he grew so fond of. 

Martin glanced down at him with a grin that would make the Cheshire cat run and cower with fear, but no matter how hard Paul kicked and screamed, the man never let up. 

Paul wasn’t as strong as the other man; no, he was so much weaker and more fragile.

“Get off of me!” A throaty laugh left the prison of Martin’s chapped lips, and it was almost as if the man grew a longer tongue, that his teeth were pointed like the monster beneath the bed at night, waiting for the day that it would eat you up, and digest you like you were the best thanksgiving dinner that it ever had.

Martin’s eyes popped out of his skull, displaying the reek description of maggots, falling into his cage-like mouth, while a few scurried around Paul’s ribcage like it was a race to get the hell out of there.

Paul couldn’t blame them; he wanted to leave, too.

Paul’s thighs were no longer slick with the arousal that it was prior, but blood, the strong smell of copper overwhelming his senses, causing him to choke, to try and throw up the contents of his stomach all over again. 

But the demonic laughter filling the air never subsided.

Paul’s heart was a quick drum against his chest, and he was a prison inside of his own mind. 

Blood pooled down the walls, leeches and maggots crawling out from behind window frames, curtains—anything that they could fit behind. Claw like hands wrapped around the circumference of Paul’s ivory neck…

Martin’s breath tickled against the flushed shell of his ear.

“Scott,”

* * *

The room was blurry, but when everything came into view, the room was the colour of innocent white, a drastically different contrast than what he had just experienced.

“So, what’s wrong with him? Is he gonna be okay?” George’s voice panged, and silence hung thickly in the air.

The doctor let out a heavy sigh. “He’s pregnant.”


	34. Day 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologize for such a late chapter! I worked on it for a while, but then I got caught up in something and I forgot to write the rest. It may be lacking a little bit in quality, but I sincerely hope you enjoy! Thank you for reading! 
> 
> -Evelyn :)

Paul’s fingers glided across his stomach as he peered at his reflection, staring back at him in the mirror. A hospital bracelet still lay neatly over his wrist, looping over the pale flesh, a constant reminder that he had another living being inside of him. Sure, it only had his name and birthdate scribbled across the band, but what the doctor told them… 

It was almost… Eerie, in its own fucked up, mysterious way. He was a man without any signs of a female reproductive system. Still, the doctor was a professional, and obviously, anything he said would be the most professional opinion out of the two. 

How would John react?

He was the father, after all. The only man Paul had been sexually active with was John. 

And, spite Paul’s anxiety, it was almost beautiful, almost benevolent, because Paul was carrying something that had a heartbeat—other than his own, of course. It was almost like a bond was forming, although, between that bond, there were countless amounts of anxiety. 

Hell, not even poor George knew that John was the father. Not anybody could know; what if somebody snitched on him? Paul wasn’t sure how big of a sentence that would earn him. 

Not to be selfish.

Especially since John would probably get a piece of copper lodged into his poor, thick skull. John was cute, but he had a… rather large head. If he dwelled on John’s thick head for too long, he would probably start droning on and on about it, so he supposed that he shouldn’t think on it for too long. 

There was a soft pattern of knocks on the door. It was slightly alarming, but Paul doubted that it was an intruder waiting to take his head off. After unlocking the bathroom door, he noticed Ringo’s familiar soft features, his hair looking almost soft, due to the gel beginning to wear off. He almost looked tired, but Paul couldn’t say that he felt any sympathy for him. Paul himself was feeling patently drowsy. 

And Ringo didn’t have a whole baby growing him, so. 

“Why didn’t ye just chug a Bismol and get yer arse over?” Ritchie’s features tensed like a confused mother, his forehead creasing, almost as if it was struggling to get an answer out of the smaller man. 

Paul shrugged. “Because I wanted to lay in bed with James Jr over here, is that alright with you?” he retorted, slender fingers cupping his own stomach to showcase his “bump,” which earned him a playful shove, but gentle enough not to send him scrambling into the pipes. 

Ringo wasn’t about to kill his little niece or nephew. He was probably going to be the best uncle there was! Ringo was a bit much, but Paul appreciated the affectionate, gentle gestures, platonic in their own way. It was incredibly sweet that Ringo’s been over a couple of times to check up on him since the diagnosis. However, Paul was almost positive that Ringo was just trying to get on his good side.

“Well, pot belly,” The older man went on, causing Paul’s button nose to scrunch up with disgust, all the while he supported his back, pretending that the whole situation was drastic, and his stomach was the size of an elephant. “Ye wanted me help, yer getting me help. Sit down.”

Paul quietly griped underneath his breath, but did as he was asked of, and shifted into the nearest chair, all the while Ringo took the luxury of sitting upon his smooth comforter, but Paul promised himself he wouldn’t get envious over something so small. “So, we’re talking about court here, right?”

The lawyer nodded. Maybe Ringo would call in next time and ask him if he wanted to hear about boring court rather than showing up unannounced. It had to be at least eight, and that was starting to feel incredibly late for him. Ritchie was helpful and made him understand the court system better, but Paul was still having a difficult time focusing on anything at the end of the day. 

“Are ye even listening?” 

Paul jolted in his seat. Was he listening? Not really. It caused a feeling of remorse in Paul’s chest, but the truth was that he could barely hear anything leaving Ringo’s lips. “Alright, fine,” Ringo spoke up, rolling his eyes.

Too bad for Paul; he didn’t give up so easily. He would be back; Paul couldn’t weasel him out of something so excruciatingly important, not even with his best set of puppy eyes, and, with Paul, most of those happened to be rather incredibly convincing. 

“Who’s the father?” 

Paul almost whined. How was he supposed to answer that without lying but still hide the truth from the judge’s eyes? “Nobody’s.” Paul stubbornly replied.

“Your baby doesn’t have a father?” Ringo asked, a curious eyebrow raised. 

“Nope.” 

Somehow Ringo found that hard to believe. Every baby had a father, even if Paul didn’t want to admit it. “So you mean to tell me ye got knocked up by a hussy?” 

Paul uncomfortably shifted in his seat, but his eyes came up from the floor, meeting Ringo’s in a gaze, but a feeling of anxiousness washed over him. “It’s John’s.” 

Ringo almost choked on his spit. “John’s?” He asked, eyes growing wide, almost so big that Paul thought they were going to pop out in the restraints of his skull. “Like, Lennon’s? John Lennon’s?” 

Paul slowly nodded.

“That baby in your stomach belongs to a fucking criminal? You let Lennon’s cock inside of you after it’s been inside dead cunt?” 

“He’s not a criminal!” 

Ringo let out a scoff. Paul’s claims were believable enough. The house they visited not too long ago was putrid, but there was still a feeling of anxiety that blossomed throughout Ringo’s core. Maybe the allegations were true; maybe everything Lennon spoke of was a complete and utter lie. Of course, only time would tell, but Paul happened to be tired more than often now, and Ringo wasn’t sure if Paul’s judgment was the most accurate. 

“Gay sex is still a criminal offense.” Ringo reminded, but Paul knew that all too well. 

“If the law finds out about this—they’ll have yer head, ye crazy bastard,” The older man went on, and it was giving Paul a headache; Ringo spoke of things Paul already knew about, and Paul didn’t need to be reminded another twenty thousand times. Paul didn’t want to admit it, but he thought that he and John were both on the line, and it was all Paul’s fault, too.

If Paul didn’t get involved, he wouldn’t have gotten stuck in such a terrible situation. If Paul didn’t get involved, then he wouldn’t be pregnant with a criminal’s baby right about now. Well, maybe, but at least the baby’s father wouldn’t be a man who was—as afraid as Paul was—probably going to die, even if Paul didn’t want to believe it. 

“When are you going to tell him?” Paul raised an eyebrow, surprised that Ringo broke the silence with such a personal question. Because… Paul didn’t have an idea or date for that either. “You’re going to tell him, aren’t you?” 

Paul nodded. 

Of course, he had to tell the man who the child belonged to. 

John didn’t deserve to be left in the dark. They hadn’t known each other for a century and some change, but Paul’s heart always hitched whenever he saw the man, his pupils never forgot to dilate; like a little school girl, Paul believed it was love. It was love; it had to be love. 

But what if Paul was too infatuated to see John for who he actually was? 

What if Martin isn’t the culprit? What if it was John all along? 

But it couldn’t be John… All the proof pointed to Martin. John was an innocent man. 

Although Paul knew better, the child in his stomach was like a switch, like a light going off that maybe Paul wasn’t as smart as he thought he was. But what about the tape? The tape wasn’t fake. 

“Ringo,” 

Ritchie let out a curious hum, his large, blue eyes widening out of interest. Maybe if Paul got a second opinion… 

“I want you to look at this tape I have... I think it could help with John’s case.” 

Ringo shuffled out of his seat, and Paul suddenly felt like he would throw up again. 

“As long as ye don’t go off and get knocked up by Ted Bundy or some shite, I’m in,”


	35. Day 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love how writer's block is just slapping the shit out of me right now lmao

The Liverpool streets were slick with ice, and Paul's hands felt equally as cold, but the warmth between him and George, along with the living being inside of his belly, was enough to keep them both hot enough to survive. Everything was so gloomy, but not after such a pulchritudinous, benevolent revelation. 

"How have you been feeling?" George asked in his familiarly rough twang, his voice bouncing off of brick walls, echoing, but Paul always managed to feel quite endeared; George was still there for him, and Paul's come to the realization that the man's voice was only paired with the sweetest of occurrences. 

Whether that be strawberries, comforting hugs with the most satisfying back rubs, or the simple, affectionate smile, Paul knew that he was safe with George, and George knew that. They neared closer to the small building hidden against the brightly lit street corner, but it looked about as beautiful as everything collected amongst the city. It was poor, sure, but Liverpool brought a sense of comfort with it wherever Paul was, but that could've been merely the fact that Liverpool was Paul's hometown. 

"Tired, actually," Paul coupled dryly, the warmth of his breath mingling with the frozen air, in turn hugging the puffy, red exterior of his cheeks, but the heat didn't last as long as Paul would have initially hoped for. "Hungry. Very hungry." 

George's face scrunched out of feigned dismay. "Really?" He asked, quizzical. "I'm usually the one who can't seem to get fuckin' stuffed; I don't think ye wanna turn to such a… grim way of living." 

Paul chuckled at the lad's joke, but he knew on some level that George meant it. George was probably skinnier than a bundle of sticks—and, admittedly, Paul envied such a way of living—and he knew that his friend was somewhat gauche whenever too much of his body was exposed. "It's not that I'm willingly trying to convert to the "dark side," Paul quoted, emphasizing with the help of air quotes, "But I think it's this bloody baby, you hear? I think it's… affecting me." 

George carefully pried the door open, and once his smaller friend wandered into the building, he followed suit. Paul swallowed around the fumes building up in his throat, the smell of nail polish remover lingering throughout the building, but the owners must have masked it with an almost fruity odor. Drinks stuffed into small fridges, and the sound of scratching nail files were prominent, but Paul liked being somewhere sanitary rather than his latest… expenses. 

"How long is the wait?" Paul asked the other attorney, but eventually, a nice, sweet-looking woman showed up at the front counter, her hair cascading in dark wisps down to the small curvature of her waist, blooming out around a dress the colour of vermillion wine. She offered them a quiet greeting, and Paul had to admit he was quite flattered by such a complimentary gesture. 

"Hello," She greeted in her equally as soft voice, her white knuckles scribbling cursive letters on the paper in front of her. The woman was probably just checking them in, but Paul's mind ran a million miles a second. 

Admittedly, the past couple of weeks have been quite the experience, and it wasn't exactly the best of occasions, either. Now everything normal felt almost foreign; it was like Paul's been dropped into a giant hamster cage left to venture out on his own, and the only judgement he had was merely pompous, self-concerning thoughts. What if the smell they were trying to cover was something sinister? What if the place was so sanitary because bodies lurk beneath the floorboards? Any second now, there would be a gun pressed to his temple… 

"What may we do you for today?" The wonderful little lady asked, her bangs brushing over the soft curve of her perfectly shaped eyebrows, glancing between the two simultaneously and awaiting an answer. When George realized that Paul was an unresponsive statue, he began to explain the situation to the woman behind the desk, and she nodded with intent. 

Eventually, they were seated across women of Asian descent, hairstyles propped upon their scalps like perfect little fruit baskets, ranging from flowers and other accessories layered in their beauteously ebony hair, and the soft creases underneath their wide, brown eyes, was enough to calm the angry, anxious induced storm curling throughout Paul's core. 

"Paul," 

Paul jolted in his seat, surprised to hear the ring of familiarity, George's eyes flickering to meet that of Paul's. "What?" He asked, and he could tell there was something large coming, especially from the sweet, compassionate crane of George's gaze, so soft, yet so intimidating. 

"Who's baby is it?" 

Paul bit down on his bottom lip, tasting the familiar tinge of copper layered upon his taste buds, but he couldn't seem to get any of the words off of his tongue. His eyelashes curled as they met the tiled floor, but the sweet lady filing away at his nails was sweet enough to treat his hands with uttermost docility. He loved George nearly to death, but there were some things that Paul couldn't share, not even with his mother, not even with the concerned look that belonged to his best friend. 

"I…" Paul was utterly speechless. He felt like all eyes were on him, including the woman who was being the nicest to him, but his hand eventually relaxed, and Paul submitted into the comfy stuffing of the luxurious chairs. 

"It's John's." 

As soon as Paul choked out the last syllable, George's eyes grew wide, probably more expansive than Ringo's, and Paul was afraid they were going to pop out of his entire skull. "Paul- " 

"You asked," Paul concluded with a soft, almost hurt look in his eyes. George wasn't mad, not at all. 

He just wished that Paul said it quieter, because now everybody's eyes were indeed on them.


	36. Day 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why is this story getting so long holy shit

Paul ducked his head beneath the doorway connecting to the prison’s corridors, glancing every which way. Although empty, Paul feared that everybody judged him with each corner he took. His dress shoes clicked a little too loudly that day; he was visibly bigger that day; Paul just generally didn’t look outstanding. He even felt unprofessional, along with overwhelming nausea hitting him every few minutes. All Paul needed was a nap and a sprite to calm the turning fetus in his abdomen, but unfortunately, he doubted he would be treated with such a luxury. 

Paul felt more claustrophobic, as well. The metaphorical walls were slowly caving in on him, and everybody was starting to realize what a phony he was. Paul had always been worried about his physical appearance, but now that he had an actual, concrete reason, he was generally petrified what the court had in store for him. No matter where he was, his face was on all of the papers, rumour after rumour decorating colourfully printed, bold letters. Paul looked like an idiot. An absolute idiot. 

He may as well have a bright, neon sign pointing arrows at him with the words “I fuck my clients” underneath it with italic letters. Then again, that’s how Paul’s mind portrayed and made sense of things, so he doubted that his puppy-dog eyes made headlines back to back. 

It was the usual routine; they checked everything he had on his person before he was led into that small room once again, facing the man that he so critically wanted to meet. Still, at the same time, he wondered if news got out to John—he wondered if John was upset—angry with him, even. However, all the tension building up amongst his stomach was dissipated, like air within a balloon once eye contact correlated—almost affectionately so. 

“Hey, love,” John mouthed, appreciatively rubbing his wrists once his restraints were off. The guards knew the whole ordeal; they left as soon as they removed the clanky, heavy metal of John’s cuffs. Knowing that the men were gone, Paul relaxed against his chair, his sweater following the casual attire, and rolling down the pale curve of Paul’s small shoulder. 

“Hi,” Paul greeted, almost awkwardly, a stupid smile spreading across the soft curves of his cheeks, his heart fluttering in his chest once he felt the rough, heavy feeling of John’s hands on top of his much smaller ones. Paul, although he was happy to see his beloved, was distraught that John had to be caged up like he was a freak of nature, and that everybody viewed him in such an uncomfortable way. 

John’s gentle eyes fell upon the rough structure of the table, but their hands never departed. Anxiety was almost visible inside of the compact room; however, they weren’t anxious from being around each other. Instead, they feared for their safety, where they would be in the upcoming future, but Paul hasn’t even dropped the bomb on John yet. He still has yet to share the excellent news; how was John going to react? 

Paul’s doe eyes flickered to meet John’s, their heartbeats quickening from the mere glance at one another, like a drum that was playing the most obnoxious beat. Still, there wasn’t anything offensive about such a delightful yet terrifying realization, a horrifying realization that only one of the parties shared. “When’s the court date?” John asked in a quiet, but compassionate tone, but Paul couldn’t put his finger on it. 

If only Paul could focus on one thing for a couple of minutes. 

“That doesn’t matter right now,” 

John’s eyes widened. “It doesn’t matter right- “ 

“I’m pregnant, John.” 

The prisoner’s head pulled forward with interest, but his eyebrows tangled out of confusion. Paul, pregnant? To his knowledge, the lawyer was a bloke, a man—with a cock, /no/ uterus to be seen. When was that even a thing? “You’ve got a cunt?” Paul almost choked on the breath forming in his throat. He wasn’t sure how, but John always brought light with such meaningful and compact conversations. 

“No,” Paul trailed off, and John became even more bewildered. Visibly so, it was written all over John’s sharp features. “Me mates took me to the doctors because the… morning sickness was terrible, and the doctor told me that I was carrying a baby.” John shook his head quickly. It was understandable why a realization muddled John, but that was indeed what was going on beneath the curtains. Pretty soon, word was going to get out to the press, and they would have an even bigger mess upon their hands. 

“So I knocked you up? You’re not fucking with me?” Hesitantly, Paul slowly shook his head. It was almost like a dream, knowing that he was somehow harboring a child within his stomach, but it wasn’t. Everything was real. He could smell, read, touch; hell, he’s pinched himself almost a dozen times, but he has yet to wake up. 

“John, we don’t have much time.” Paul whispered, but he was positive that John came up with that conclusion all on his own. He doubted John was busy besides sitting in a cell all day, reflecting on his past—planning the future. “Pretty soon, I’m going to get fucking huge, and it’s going to be hard hiding it.” 

Yet, behind John’s uncomfortably concerned gaze, Paul found comfort. “We’ll figure out something, prissy.” He whispered. “I’m bloody stumped, but we’ll figure out something.” 

Reality slapped John across the face. He’s been worrying for himself this entire time, but now that he was going to be a father… He had a life to live for now. He needed to be there; he needed to see his child grow up. He wanted to be the dad that drove his kids to school and fed them unhealthy snack lunches. He wanted to be the cool dad that would get scolded by his wife for such unruly things. 

John had to live. For Paul. For their child. 

“I promise.”

Paul’s smile only grew wider at the words. 

“I trust you.”


	37. Day 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been rather busy lately with school and shit, so I'm sorry for such a long wait. I probably won't be posting as frequently as I used to, but I promise I haven't forgotten about it lmao. I love writing this story, and I'm glad that some people are still enjoying it! 
> 
> -Evelyn

Paul’s fingers nimbly scanned over the exterior of his warm mug, his nails gliding across the rough glass, appreciating the feeling as the coffee warmed his vocal cords, melting them down from the icebergs that they contained only seconds prior. His stomach filled with terrified butterflies, which made him feel queasy inside, the ones that reminded him of the disquietude that he felt every couple of moments. If he wasn’t busy, a storm would rise repeatedly, and the storm was never good; it always lasted for at least a couple of hours. 

Paul’s honey eyes glanced up from his large mug of coffee, his face lighting up whenever he saw the broad structure of Ringo’s figure. Once they shared a glance towards each other, Ritchie finally made his way over to the table next to the lawyer; he greeted the small boy and took a seat next to him. “Hey,” Ringo smiled, offering a wave towards Paul, and Paul quickly returned the comforting gesture. “Did you bring those tapes?”

Paul pursed his lips, suppressing a giggle. It almost sounded like Ringo asked Paul to smuggle in some cocaine or a similar drug, but nonetheless, he had what the man was looking for. After they collected their mugs full of hot beverages, Ringo led Paul out of the small, quaint coffee shop, but he didn’t forget to splay a ten quid on the table for Linda to pick up later. “’ M not sure how you’re really gonna react to them…” Paul said once the cold Liverpool air tickled the curves of his puffy cheeks. 

“What way do I have to react?” Ringo glanced back at the lawyer, but all Paul was able to think of doing was throwing in a short-lived shrug. Paul didn’t have anything to fear, but there was still a noticeable pit in his stomach that was the culprit of his self-riddled anxiety. Maybe Ringo was right. Maybe John was the monster that everybody claimed that he was. 

Then again, Paul loved John, and he didn’t want to think about the doctor in such a brutal way. With John locked up and Martin scared shitless, Paul was sure the homicides would’ve been stopped by now, but unfortunately, only time could tell. There was sure to be a copycat, but nonetheless, Paul had a couple of weeks to ponder the terrifying situation. 

* * *

As they neared closer to Paul’s flat, Paul’s anxiety suddenly drilled into his abdomen, similar to a massive black hole ready to feast on any fear bubbling inside Paul’s body. Bile threatened to crawl back up Paul’s esophagus, tickling his vocal cords, but he quickly swallowed it down, along with any apprehension that was still present. Paul greeted the large dog that was friendly enough to wait by his front door, but her tail’s fast pace came to a halt when she realized the concerned look upon the lawyer’s otherwise soft features. After a few moments, Paul led Ringo into the study, and his nimble fingers quickly searched for the tapes that they spoke so freely about. 

“Y’see, I’m gonna use these for the judge to look at. Y’know, because this is kind of proof that he’s not the bloke they’re looking for,” Paul explained, but the more he spoke, the darker his cheeks became out of embarrassment. Ringo’s face was so… illegible—so obscured, just like Paul’s point of view concerning the entire situation. His vision, blurred by utter ignorance, quickly became superb whenever his sorrel orbs focused on the plastic he held with such importance. Ringo didn’t have the same look; Ringo probably thought so low of him. Even Paul felt sort of surreal, but it wasn’t due to the judge’s presence, but his own—or rather the child inside of him. 

Ringo’s lips parted, but the words on his tongue tangled into the fried contents of his throat, voice box denying any lee-way. Of course, he adored Paul, and it broke his heart, seeing the lawyer try to prove himself to him, but Ringo inevitably thought of the man as a child with her first crush. Everybody thought their first crush was their true love; everybody had so much hope. However, as we get older, that crush slowly subsides into something much smaller, and suddenly that diamond ring becomes a rock instead of the beautiful pearl you thought so dearly of. “Love” for Paul was merely a mix up of infatuation, infatuation with passionate “love” making in the slur of colours. What Paul felt must’ve been a tornado of emotions, but inside that storm looked more like a flower field. Paul needed to take off his rose coloured glasses, but Ringo doubted that they wouldn’t be so devotedly glued on the perimeter of his thick skull. 

“Here,” Ritchie spoke up, his tone dripping with sympathy as he collected the tape within the large palms of his hands, allowing himself to feed the hungry telly. The television spit and spurred, but eventually, John's frazzled film appeared within the screen, the smile John had giving Paul’s stomach a flurry of butterflies. Ringo, deciding to ignore Paul’s flushed skin, focused his gaze upon the screen, the sharp features of John’s face. 

* * * 

“So, anyway, Theresa,” John went on, laughing to himself as he forced the scalpel to go on a tangent about herself, but his smile quickly fell when the utensils on the table fell with a loud clinking of the metal. His face progressively became more terrified, filled with utter anxiety as the door slammed open. 

What was this? It had to be some sort of bit that John was planning. It couldn’t have been real; maybe the switch of emotions was used to entertain his viewers, but Paul wasn’t so sure if that justified the scene playing before him. If he knew any better, he would assume John was dead after seeing such a horrific change of scenery, but at least he knew that much of the story wasn’t right. 

John’s head quickly turned to glance at the door. A figure sauntered through the tall doorway, but Paul couldn’t make out any distinct features of the person, of whoever was standing before John with such an intimidating stance. Paul wondered if John would remember the experience. Still, after what happened a couple of weeks ago, Paul doubted that John even remembered who the hell Yoko was—who was undoubtedly the culprit of John’s minor memory loss. The thought of that vile woman caused Paul to ball his hands up into tight fists—tight enough to drain his knuckles a pale shade of white. 

When was Paul stupid enough that he didn’t view the entirety of the film he claimed? Paul could’ve sworn that he watched the full movie, but he supposed that he missed a couple of details—but how did he miss an entire scene? 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” John spoke out. There was a momentary pause before the figure shrugged it’s broad, square shoulders. “It’s too late, weren’t you supposed to go home a couple hours ago?” 

Although Paul knew that the voice was speaking, he couldn’t make out the words it said, but he was aware of how frequently its mouth was moving. Hopefully, it was just a regular person who didn’t like being filmed, but the shock and fear in John’s voice spoke otherwise…


	38. Day 37

Beautiful roses paint streaks of red onto Paul's legs, but he couldn't seem to turn away. No matter how much the branches gripped and refused to let go of his pale, smooth skin, Paul continued to claw at the earth until his fingernails caked with mud. Fresh tears rolled down the flushed curves of his supple cheeks. Still, no matter how many times he shouted and screamed for mercy, he was continuously greeted with the nimble, terrifying darkness. It pulled him back until the surface of his enthralling baby bump was nowhere near enticing anymore, but instead rubbed raw until he could no longer feel any pain. It was just numb—he was just numb. 

Thorns threaded around his twisted vocal cords, tugging and shoving themselves into every cranny of his body, just like an unexpected house guest that would just never let up. The tunnel was getting smaller, and smaller, and smaller… 

The branches and vines tugged him farther away from his destination, and that destination happened to be just the place he needed to be. That destination was, metaphorically, the courtroom that he so desperately wished to be in. Not that it was entertaining in the slightest. The air was as stale as a Dorito that had been laying out for a couple of days, which was, admittedly, disgusting. Not only that, but everyone was so full of themselves that it surprised Paul their heads weren't barreling out of their asses, similar to a crate full of bowling balls the size of their equally as large egos. 

And the way Ringo was looking at him with uttermost /un/certainty wasn't that helpful either. Ringo was usually the one who knew what to say, but right now, he could tell that the judge was speechless to what he just had a gander at. Wordlessly, Ringo ejected the tape and gazed down at the film that was spitting out of its sides, like the film's contents were just too much for it to handle. "You weren't joking." He shrugged, and slowly, Paul nodded out of acknowledgement. 

It was like a breath of fresh air, and not the "fresh" air that they had rotating around the scorching courtroom. No, this air was like fresh daises the size of airplanes, twiddling their petals so effortlessly and kissing Paul's hair a sunray of different shades of chestnut, hugging him into the sweetest, comforting hug that he could have ever imagined. The only thing that would have been better was a great, big hug from John. Paul wondered what he would have smelled like out of such an awful place. If John already smelled amazing inside, then who knew what could have happened once he stepped foot outside. Oh, how the birds would sing and fly, how they would drop little presents like swans and their lilies. 

"How long have ye had these tapes, kid?" Ringo asked, his eyes sparkling their familiar blue hue as soon as their gazes met. How long had he had those tapes? Paul wasn't even sure himself. It had been a while since they've come into his possession—well, omitting the fact that Martin tried to snatch them from his control like a wannabe supervillain. Now, it would have been interesting if he was genuinely good at it, but he couldn't even shoot Paul when he was down like an injured animal. Hell, Paul would have done a better job shooting China's wall while—also—being unconscious. 

"Maybe a couple of months…"

"And you just now wanted to tell me about it?" Ringo rolled his eyes. Paul could tell that the judge was somewhat annoyed, and Paul understood why he would have been a little bit irritated. Maybe Ringo could have helped him sooner if he took the time to mention their existence, but just like a three-year-old, Paul was fearful, and he felt the need to hide them. Paul gingerly took the tape out of Ringo's possession. His small fingers glided across the surface, silently appreciating how the plastic felt between his soft fingerprints. All Paul was hoping for was that they were enough proof to get John off of the hook, but court was also an unruly, tough battle, and Paul was able to acknowledge that it wasn't going to be the easiest thing he's ever put his mind to. 

"I wanted to tell you before…" Paul whispered, but was immediately cut off by the other man.

"Before?"

"Well, I guess before everything stopped getting so serious. John didn't even know about 'em until a few weeks after I found them." Ringo's eyebrows raised out of surprise. He would have assumed that Paul immediately told the man about his findings, but he supposed that not even Paul told everything he learned as soon as the information was mentioned. 

"You know what you're fighting for, right?" 

"Yeah, of course I do. I'm fighting for an innocent bloke's life."

Ringo's eyes inevitably softened. 

"You really love him, huh?" 

"I do--er, well, at least I think I do."


	39. Day 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of smut chapters lmao

For once, the weather outside of the prison wasn’t entirely gloomy—well, at least it wasn’t as grim as it always happened to be, mainly because everything going on inside of its walls wasn’t exactly the first thing somebody thinks of when they hear the word luscious—or lavish. Everything was so caliginous whenever Paul stepped even a foot in the direction of such a vile place. For the right reason, sure, but it didn’t make it any more tolerable. Paul knew that prisons were mandatory, but whenever his eyes glistened over the cages, he was always reminded of locked up animals, like visiting a zoo that only housed inmates.

He couldn’t believe how much his perception had changed in a couple of months. Nearly a year had gone by since Paul sunk his claws into the deep restraints of John’s horrible case, and almost a month had gone by since he’d been announced as officially pregnant. Nearly two weeks had gone by since he told his friends about the big news, and even much less time had gone by since Paul let John in on the secret.

Just a month ago did he believe that men couldn’t get pregnant. Boy, was he a foolish man back then. “Back then” was such a general term; “back then” was always so vague. “Back then” could have been seconds ago, and seconds ago, was Paul not mature as he was now. Every second, Paul was growing, and so was the lovely baby keeping itself at home inside Paul’s tummy. 

It was routine that the guards invited him in and made sure he was comfortable before they brought him back behind the iron gates. He hated how eerie it remained, but Paul was glad that he was reassured with the “friendly” pats of the guards, the quiet promises of keeping him safe lacing their gruff voices. Paul wasn’t sure if he wanted to believe them, but he had no reason to distrust them, so he continued nonetheless. Maybe the walls were caving on him, and the air felt cooler, but that was merely because Paul wasn’t the only one worrying anymore. He had a child to protect, and he would be damned anybody hurt his baby in the hands of some fat pigs who only knew how to eat and scratch their asses. 

“Mr. McCartney,” John nodded, and the way the doctor spoke was almost enough to evoke a laugh from Paul’s plump lips. It was so formal, so unquestionably queer and distinctive. Paul’s heard it dozens of times before, but never in the control of John’s tongue, never did it leave the restraints of John’s thin lips. The door shut behind Paul after they went through the obvious procedure; the guards removed John’s cuffs and shackles, read out Paul’s rights before they were off, and instructed the lawyer to shout if he so dare need anything. 

Paul got the gist; they didn’t give a single shit about what he needed or if he was cared for. They indeed did a good job capturing the essence of caring, but Paul knew better to believe that rubbish. Cops didn’t care about anybody but themselves, although that was something only Paul felt like he caught along to. “Mr. Lennon,” Paul greeted, equally as friendly.

A smirk formed on the other man’s lips and Paul could read that smirk from anywhere. It wasn’t the most chaste, but nothing John said and/or done could have been considered anything other than crude. Paul could read the man like an open book, and John seemed to be enjoying it—very much so. “I quite like that title, hm?” John announced, his eyes scanning over the small frame of the lawyer—almost predator-like. If Paul didn’t know any better, he would have been intimidated, but John made his insides tingle and caused the very tips of his fingers to wrap around luxuriously with warmth. If only they could lay in bed all day with Al Bowlly playing over the record track, huddled up together like a pack of penguins, only wanting to be up against each other for warmth. However, it wasn’t just for the pure pleasure of comfort, but because Paul yearned to be close to John, to be held within his strong arms. 

“What title?”

“Mister,” John informed. A snicker wrapped around his words once he caught the flushed cheeks of the attorney, happy that he accomplished something so big, so extravagant. Not that it was hard to make the beautiful boy blush, but because John enjoyed seeing him become so deliciously red from a small comment, from a tiny sliver of reassurance and recognition. For some reason, John was able to sense that Paul was a people pleaser, and he enjoyed that more than he would have liked to admit. 

“Oh, do you, now?” Paul was smiling from ear to ear, a grin that could make the Cheshire cat jealous, a smile that would make the sun kick and scream with envy. Paul was just so perfect—John hadn’t seen anything like it. From his beautifully trimmed eyebrows and incomparably sculpted eyelashes—Paul was excellent, and it almost made John’s face feel hot once he realized such a detail. 

John scrambled to retrieve a vessel from his pants pocket. It was hard enough to get it smuggled past the stupid guards, but it was worth it if Paul enjoyed it all the same. “I’ve got this, actually,” 

Paul furrowed his eyebrows, almost questioning what the hell John grabbed off of the market. Paul didn’t even /know/ inmates of “his kind” could have granted with such an opulent gift. “Lotion?” He asked, nearly choking on his spit. It wasn’t too special outside of prison gates, but the fact that John could grab something of its notability was somewhat admirable. “Lotion” wasn’t merely “lotion” inside of the prison. No, lotion held an importance that was way above such a simplicity. Maybe to the guards, it was lotion, but Paul could tell that John was planning on doing something more complicated than solely moisturizing. 

“So, you’re planning on shagging me with…” Paul beckoned for the bottle, which John gladly dropped it inside of Paul’s gentle palm. “Mango kiwi… Body moisturizer?” 

John, admittedly, couldn’t help from chuckling. 

“Yeah, that was the plan.” 

Paul rolled his eyes, which earned himself a scoff from the man sitting across from him. “Hey, you got a better idea?” 

The attorney shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I didn’t think I would ever be gettin’ a sensual body massage with kiwi mel— “

“Mango kiwi,” John interrupted. 

“/Mango kiwi/ body moisturizer.” Paul’s features contorted as he laughed, only struggling to hold back his amazement when John’s cheeks went beet red. Paul could understand the effort that John put into their arrangement, but it was just too much for the lawyer to resist from giggling at. 

“Doesn’t matter, does it? Come over here, let’s go,” John demanded, and through little snickers and sweet grins, Paul shifted out of his seat and straddled his boyfriend’s hips—just as John asked him to. “Yeah, that’s it. What a good boy you are, eh?” John absentmindedly smudged his fingerprints over the fair skin beneath Paul’s blazer, the fabric buckling and wrinkling beneath his rough touch. All he was doing was appreciating the warm, smooth guide of Paul’s flesh; Paul’s hips felt so wide, so ripe and ready for offspring that it caused John’s arousal to stir in the contents of his jumper. 

Paul buried his face against the warmth of John’s neck, inhaling slowly as he basked in the sweet, citrus scent of John’s curly hair until that citrus smell became something else that… Still smelled fruity, but not the scent he was so familiar with. Paul snatched up the lotion before John could continue his assault, taking a big whiff out of the bottle. “Do you have this… kiwi mango lemon—whatever it’s called—on?”

The ornate pattern of John’s prodigious hands suddenly ceased, which immediately told Paul that he was, in fact, correct about the assumption. “You do, don’t you?” John, reluctantly, nodded. It was nice to use after a shower—and who was he to deny the friendly guard who offered it to him? She would have been heartbroken, and John didn’t feel like giving a poor, eighty-year-old cop a heart attack. 

“It smells nice!” John exclaimed, earning himself a playful slap from the boy who remained seated in the ample room of John’s lap. Paul was just happy that he wasn’t sitting in that chair anymore—there wasn’t enough space for him to be comfortable, and his ass surely didn’t admire how hard it felt. John was just about as hard, but John was a different story, and Paul didn’t feel like his ass was about to fall off in that current moment. 

John gingerly squeezed the back of Paul's thighs, shivering pleasurably upon feeling the refined texture of Paul's smooth skin beneath his work slacks. If he thought Paul could handle it, John would have had Paul against the table in seconds, but alas, that was merely out of the question, but only because he didn't want to break Paul with all the force he could muster. John was under the impression that Paul was scared of him just like everybody else, even if Paul repeated countless times that that was simply not the case. 

A squeak left Paul's plush lips as John rucked him on the table that was /supposed/ to be in between them, but John felt so touchy-feely lately, and that was, straightforwardly, not going to cut. "You're really gonna shag me while you smell like a bloody fruit salad?" Paul teasingly whispered, but was inevitably interrupted by a high pitched gasp, his breath echoing within the walls and bursting every which way. It was surprising that the guards weren't alarmed, but John didn't give a shit either way. 

Although everything was happening so impeccably fast, John's heart still thumped against his ribcage like an angry set of butterflies, tickling him different shades of pink, and left to gawk at the beautiful brunette laying beneath him. Paul's hair—it was so pretty, almost ebony, and the way it shone and glistened underneath the fluorescent lights was mind-boggling. Paul was perfect—so smart and absolutely breathtaking, it was a mere surprise that Paul chose him, of all people. Not only that, but Paul believed him, and that was what meant to John most of all. 

John needed to stop thinking about it so much. He was trying to make Paul feel good, to have Paul feel like a million bucks, and here he was thinking about his undying love for the beautiful attorney beneath his fingertips. "John," Paul whispered, which promptly knocked him out of his toxic mind. John was grateful that he had Paul. Paul always knew how to bring him back into the real world, always reminding him to appreciate the only thing keeping him alive, which was more or less, Paul. 

John's rough palms glided down Paul's impressive figure, and by the time he got to the lawyer's waistline, he practically ripped off his undergarments. He couldn't wait much longer, not when Paul gave him those puppy eyes, the ones he used whenever he was begging for a release. Now, John only got to venerate within the look for only a couple of seconds, but John cherished the memory so significantly that he only associated it with the most wondrous of associations. 

Once the brunette's thighs sprung free, John's trousers consequently became the tightest they've ever been. That moment alone, he realized he needed to hurry up before he came just from the scenery alone. After gaining composure, John's palms surveyed every square inch of Paul's lovely figure, exploring the lawyer's ribcage with curious, sticky fingerprints, his nails gliding smoothly over the indentations, earning a satisfied hum from Paul, who trembled and twitched beneath the rapturous, yet rewarding sensations. Paul fantasized about all of the lovely feelings John would bring with him. Paul hoped that the man would drop them off as sweetly as he came in, like a smooth box of chocolates that only contained the small peanut butter cups that were so delectable against the surface of his tongue. 

Paul's knickers' lace exterior caused a smile to inhabit John's features, but instead of the happy smile that usually possessed his face, it was instead a grin of infatuation, a grin that screamed of all the things John was going to do to him. Hopefully, John's touch was as enriching as they were the last time they fooled around, but Paul wasn't as sensitive as he was right then, probably due to the pregnancy.

The pregnancy… He was going to have a baby. Paul couldn't believe the fruitful, satisfying feeling of baby fever, but it was as present as day and as bright as the moon whenever the sun went home for the night, and the only thing present was the orange arrays of light cascading from the streetlights. 

"Just relax for me…" John cooed, his breathing slightly hitched by the time he lathered the slick lotion on the palms of his hands. It wasn't the most practical of choices, and he painfully wished they had a small vial of lube, but that was out of the question, unfortunately. John's voice was relaxing; however, regrettably, Paul still trembled and whined, like a sick rabbit begging for a carrot, but the carrot was, metaphorically, much more significant. 

John almost sat on the thought of having Paul beg, to ask if he knew what he wanted, but the look in Paul's mellow gaze spoke louder than quiet little whimpers of approval, spoke louder than any whine and pout Paul would even dare to pursue. John inched deliciously closer, so beautifully tangled between the curves of Paul's heavenly thighs, beckoned adjacent and pressed flush together, their bodies mingling for a sweet romance as lips brushed in a delectable, warm dance of love. John brushed his fingertips against the boy's entrance, but as soon as he felt Paul arch his back and tense, he waited a couple more moments before Paul eventually relaxed into the touch. 

Their lips separated, and just from the simple synchronization, Paul's skin was about as red as the apple John "enjoyed" for lunch. The only thing good inside of the prison happened to be the fruit they served, but it never put up a contest beside the young, doe-eyed lawyer, who was able to make John melt from just the tiniest of glances. 

John thrusted his digits bounteously rough, but the contortions of Paul's beautiful features brought a smile to his face, one that could undoubtedly make the devil blush if he saw such a grin of confidence. Maybe he should have been a bit more rhythmic with the circulations of his movements, but Paul seemed to be enjoying himself quite a bit, judging by the sheer factor that he was trying to contain all of the noise in the world, or else nobody would understand or be able to handle their level of intimacy. 

Paul's fingers became lost within the forest of John's auburn curls, tugging on the strands until his whole being arched off of the slick wood beneath him, his toes curled as he bucked his hips back against John's fingers, wishing for them never to end. Paul was glad that he had so much practice on himself because now all he could think about was all of the pleasurable sensations John wracked him with, the warmth stirring in his abdomen faster than he could mumble his boyfriend's name numerous amounts of times. 

"Do you want it?" John asked, his hips rolling against Paul's prepped hole, which earned himself a beseeched cry, one similar to a mewl, begging for the man above him to do whatever he wished. 

"Please?" Paul cried, begging with his eyes. Eventually, John decided that it was enough for him and discarded his clothes as quickly as he could manage without falling over his legs. Paul's soft neck fell vulnerable to John's adventurous mouth, where wet kisses lay and hickeys the tone of vermillion bloomed beneath his flushed lips, his rigid teeth exploring the now messily marked up skin, which only looked all the more ivory from the needful movements of John's mouth. It only took a couple of seconds before John lathered the sweet-scented lotion onto the base of his length, nearly throwing his head back. He couldn't recall a time where he felt higher. At that moment, he felt like he was on top of the world. Metaphorically and physically, of course.

Paul was his entire world, and just the thought of that little claim was enough to cause his whole body to feel hot with existential pleasure. "Please, John," Paul cried once more, nearly bursting into tears. John was taking his sweet time, and each second felt like a million years went by. 

John correctly positioned himself at the well-slicked entrance of the brunette's tight walls, his breathing quickly being robbed from his lungs by the time he pressed inside Paul. Each time they decided to do something so crude, John always felt like a flushed bride, but not anything similar to the boy beneath him. No, Paul always looked spent, his dark hair sticking to his flushed skin as he panted and begged for a release, a whimpering and sweaty mess beneath John's unforgiving touch. 

"S- shit, Johnny," Paul whispered, his tone just as begging as it was only seconds prior, his nails biting into the firm curves of John's shoulder blades, clawing at the skin as he bucked against the full sensation for dear life. Although it was challenging to keep Paul perfectly tranquil, John found the hyperventilating to be quite sexy. Paul was so desperate for his cock. However, once Paul's grip had finally relaxed, John slowly caught up with his thrusts and made note that he shouldn't pound into the tight, warmness that surrounded his arousal so elegantly. 

His hands were a tight, unforgiving effort against Paul's ample hips, squeezing the warm, soft skin as he thrust forward, quickly chasing his release, which wasn't too far behind. Paul's moans were rewarding enough for him to keep pursuing such a privilege, and it was a golden ticket that he wished so desperately to obtain. John forcefully pried the brunette's hands from his thick strands of hair, instead squeezing Paul's petite knuckles, almost for dear life, as he continued to move his hips at the same, uneven pace that he so deliberately tried to keep the pace of. 

Their breathing mingled and harmonized with the same benevolent result, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the small room, and nothing could feel better to John but the clenched sensation of Paul's thighs desperately squeezing either side of his hips. 

"I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come— " Paul squeaked out, but alas, John's breath wasn't able to keep up with the intricate thrusts of their bodies before the movements of the lawyer's small waist eventually ceased, his feet arching so beautifully as he came and made a mess all over the both of their stomachs. 

John struggled to hold himself back. Paul tensed around him with such need and clung to him, so urgently wishing and basking in John's scent—it caused John's fingernails to tense against Paul's skin, eventually chasing after his high, his breathing quick and ragged by the time he, ultimately, pulled himself out of the small lawyer, who was still in the process of trying to catch his breath, who was still shaking from his own abundant orgasm.

"I love you," John found himself blurting out. Paul's eyes widened, but it didn't take too long before he relaxed once more.

"I… I love you too."


	40. Day 39

The phone rang on the dialer. Paul ran his fingers through his soft locks, making a mess out of his bushy fringe, his unkempt hair turning every which way like it couldn’t make up its mind on what angle it wanted to take. Although Paul was getting an abundance of hours of sleep than he was a few weeks prior, he still felt exhausted, like a five-year-old who still required the daily dose of naps to function. Paul missed such simple times; he missed being five and having naptime; he missed the times where things weren’t as complicated, and he didn’t have a man’s life at his fingertips. 

Paul’s tired hand reached for the receiver, his ear pressed against it as he listened to the heavy breathing on the other end. It was alien, hearing such a weird way of breathing from the other side of the phone, but Paul decided not to question it. His exhausted brain was making up things that weren’t currently there to inspect. He was itching for new cases to pick at—John’s was getting so challenging, so tiresome—and it was self-evident that Paul’s brain was overworked, yet it still insisted on working itself to the wick, until he was finally able to solve something. It was like a Rubik’s cube; once cracked and all was said and done, it was time for a different project, but in this instance, Paul already destroyed it and was looking for something else to sink his teeth into. 

“Hello?” Came Paul’s voice, thick and full of fatigue, probably raspy from his earlier, more complicated activities he spent with John, who was, admittedly, quite good at what he was very prideful of. John was… Very good in bed, and Paul turned red from thinking about their relations. If he didn’t stop feeling so vividly, he would probably have another problem quickly arise within his hands. 

“Mr. McCartney,” Yoko’s voice rang from the other end. It took Paul a couple of moments, however, he was eventually aware who was speaking to him, and his heart sunk immediately to his abdomen once he heard the rough, southeastern twang of her voice. By the time she spoke up, Paul’s arousal had already been long gone, sunk to his toes, and of course, never to be spoken of again. “You’re that bastard doctor’s lawyer—or, rather, ex-doctor—aren’t you?” 

Paul nearly grit his teeth from the way she described John; /his/ John. Not only that, but nobody should have been giving John the most obnoxious, rude comments, mostly behind his back. The way Paul saw it was that if there was something to be said, it better have been mentioned up close in personal, not while running away, tail tucked between thighs, scared of what the world would say if word got out. However, in this case, it was different. Yoko spoke that way about just everybody; there wasn’t any exceptions, especially for a man who had multiple allegations over his head, dangling like the teasing teeth of the guillotine… 

“I suppose. And you’re calling off of what behalf?” Paul asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm as his manicured nails bit into the soft curves of his palms. Hopefully he wouldn’t have hurt them too badly; he just got them done! George would have been devastated if Paul messed up the manicure after a couple of weeks; they were much due for another fill-in, but manicures were merely just a treat. 

“To talk about our little friend,” The warden explained, and Paul could tell by the tone of her voice that she was just a cottonmouth ready to snap venom out in just his general direction. Paul wasn’t precisely what Yoko had done to John back a couple of months ago, but he knew, within him, that it hadn’t been anything marvelous, much less legal. Paul still couldn’t get the image of John’s burnt sideburn out of his head; every time Paul had something as small as a lingering thought, his heart would break inside of the contents of his chest. Not even his worst enemy deserved such an obscure punishment, no matter what that punishment happened to be. 

Everything in Paul’s being told him that he was treading in unwanted territory, but he didn’t step back. No, he possibly couldn’t, not when he had gotten so far… 

“What did you do to him?” 

There was a pause that laid thick in the air, and even the sharpest knife probably would have trouble splitting the tension. The dialer ran flat, and all that Paul managed to hear was the soft hitch of Yoko’s breath. She seemed to be holding back; whatever that may be, Paul was going to get to the root of the issue, no matter how hard he had to fight. He could only imagine her long fingers twirling around the chord of the receiver, playing with it like a strand of her long, silky hair, or a man who was willing to twist around her digit and follow her every command…

That wasn’t going to be Paul.

“I think the bigger question is, what did you do to him?” 

Another line of silence, but this time, Paul’s hand was the next move. She already answered his question, and her next line of query was for him to answer, but Paul wasn’t exactly sure how he was going to follow through with such a task. How much did Yoko know? 

There was just so much to catch up on.

His career…

His relationship…

His baby…

With John. All of the following had something to do with John. They all led a perfect trail of snacks to the man’s path. They all pointed to the inmate with glowing colours, and the neon lights simply blinded Paul. Not to say that Paul was blaming John in any way, but instead, he blamed himself. If Paul didn’t let himself act so foolish, then maybe they wouldn’t be in the situation they are in now. 

Paul quickly shook his head; he forced himself to stop thinking about everything so hard. He couldn’t let her venom get to him, but maybe her poison was truly his in disguise; perhaps he was his own enemy, and Yoko was that tall figure that finally made him realize what had been in front of him this entire time. 

“And what are you possibly going on about?” Paul bit down on his plush bottom lip; She possibly couldn’t have known that much.

“Who does the baby belong to, Paulie?” 

Yoko’s voice cut him harder than a knife. Her voice was so smooth, yet so rough, and he could just imagine her piercing, brunette gaze staring back at him, tearing his soul apart from just a single glance. Yoko knew that she was a threat, and she obviously enjoyed that mindset, maybe a little bit too much. 

“Why is that any of your business?”

“I already know.” Yoko explained, her words twisting and coiling around his heart, and much like the snake she was, she was squeezing his insides and suffocating him until his face went blue, until he could no longer gasp for the delicious air that he so craved with a desperate passion. Yoko knew his secret, and Paul wasn’t sure how she did it, but saying that he was intimidated was an understatement. Paul had relations with an inmate, and that inmate happened to be a man. Lord only knows how much the media frowned upon such a rebel.

Homosexuality was a “sin,” and homosexuality was rightfully immoral. It was also illegal and probably could have landed him a couple of years inside the same bars John found himself behind. “Do you? Please tell me.” Paul responded, his thick skull unable to wrap around the fact that she knew too much. Paul couldn’t help but deny any evidence that she had behind her, even if he would probably be proven wrong.

“You tell so much as a soul what I do under /my/prison’s terms, then so help me God, I will make sure it gets out to the press that you /get/ shagged by your clients. I’m sure you and your baby wouldn’t like that very much, hm?” 

Paul’s heart was a slurred mess against his ribcage, but judging by the frequency of Yoko’s rapid words, he could somewhat tell how much she was rushing. He knew that the woman was intimidated, yet, he couldn’t do much--because, on the other side of the coin, he was just as unnerved as she was. 

“The press won’t like inhumane practices either.” Paul added, and a smooth hiss filled the receiver of the phone. 

“You better hope you’re lucky, McCartney.” 

The phone went dead.


	41. Day 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, forty chapters lmao
> 
> I'm actually really sorry for the slow updates :( I've been going through quite a bit lately 
> 
> It's been a little difficult for me to stay on schedule, and tbh I'm not really sure if I will be able to post as frequently as I used to rip
> 
> I'm still writing though! So I hope this one's good for y'all :-)

"Macca, just listen to me; you really need to go see Pattie. She doesn't give a shite if you're a pregnant bloke! She's seen worse," George's eyes were about as big as two saucers, his eyebrows knitted in a thick sheen of interest, but Paul was still all the more reluctant. He trusted his friend's input, but there was still a bit of anxiousness forming in his stomach. 

Anxiety may not even have been anxiety at all; it may have also been hunger, but hunger didn't happen to be stuck to his mind like a bad case of superglue. He wondered why superglue stuck so well whenever he didn't need it, but as soon as he needed it to work…

"Macca! What if something is wrong with the little bugger, and you're just prolonging the poor sod's death?" 

Paul shrugged his narrow shoulders. A part of him would have wanted a better ending for his unborn child. All he wanted to do was see the beautiful boy's face, but at the end of the day, people were still heavily against homosexual relations, and if word got out of Paul's raunchy activities, he would surely lose his job…

Or worse, he would face serious jail time. And all because he gave in to the thought of being deliciously railed by a big, bad prisoner, who, also, may or may not be utterly notorious of his gruesome, yet surprising homicides. Paul almost wished John was the real deal because if John was legitimately as disgusting as the media portrayed him, then maybe Paul could dig up some information out of him. It would surely buy him a glorious reputation. 

Paul found himself pondering all the same. What if John happened to be who they were actually going for, and little by little, a demon child was growing in his… abdomen? Where was the baby, anyway? Maybe Pattie would let him in on the scoop with fancy little diagrams, or, more importantly, an array of colourful and delicious lollipops. Oh, what he'd do for a strawberry lolli…

"What if I go up there and as the months pass, a baby with horns just appears? Y'know, with John's cute little cane nose and all." Paul asked. Admittedly, the thought was enough to force a smile out of him. Paul couldn't even imagine how sweet it would have looked, just like John, but in its own disturbingly adorable way. Especially with John's thick eyebrows—just like two little, sweet caterpillars mingling on that sharp face of his…

Or would the baby look like him? Even for such soft features, Paul's genetics were, ironically, dominant. Now, an exact clone of him was terrifying, but Paul was all the more curious. 

He jolted when George spoke up. The man's voice rang through his head, running into one of his ears just to smoothly run out the other. "Make a goddamn appointment with Pattie, or God so help me, I'll make you one myself," He threatened through gritted teeth, which after a long, mental debate, convinced Paul singlehandedly that it was probably in his best interest. Although scared, Paul had to bite the bullet, but this time it happened to be metaphorically instead of the same, physical piece of brass that he nearly choked down not too long ago. 

"Fine, I'll make the fucking appointment."

* * * 

By the time Paul stepped through the hospital doors, he was greeted with a shrill peek of anxiety. Although fluorescent, artificial lighting filled the room, Paul couldn't help but feel that it was instead a dark array of uneasiness that would surely sneak up on him later. The corridors led to rooms of the unknown, and the wooden, squeaky floorboards didn't do the place much justice either. It smelled of cleaning products and medicine, but it was the last place that Paul wanted to be.

Paul was never a fan of hospitals.

They always housed the most disgusting people. However, they weren't even gross at all; they were just eerily as similar and typical as him. Snotty faced kids, tired adults—was this what Paul would face in the next upcoming months? He couldn't even imagine changing diapers… What if John wouldn't be there with him, and what if John was actually going to die? It was still hard for Paul to digest. Paul didn't want to believe something so atrocious would happen to his beloved, and it was worse that it was undoubtedly the most accurate thing that would occur under John's agenda.

Paul couldn't imagine what it would have been like, counting the days off before you'd finally die, and when that day comes, people would be cheering and throwing cheap cotton candy outside of the iron doors, no matter what the weather happened to be outside. To them, that day would be the sunniest as well as the brightest; the birds would be chirping, but unfortunately, in reality, the sky would be clapping with bouts of terrifyingly loud thunderclaps.

It didn't matter as long as he was dead. They all wanted to see John's head on a sparkling platter…

His Johnny…

Dead.

Paul's throat inevitably closed.

"Mr. McCartney?" A woman's voice broke the silence within the uncomfortably soothing white noise, but hers seemed to genuinely synchronize with birds of all colours. She sounded a lot sweeter than a kid with a sore throat. She motioned for him to follow. Her golden curls bounced as she shifted towards the metal doorframe, and Paul quickly followed behind when he realized that the woman was talking to him. 

The room she led him into was a lot less spacious than the waiting room, but for some reason, it felt a lot cozier, as well as roomy, even if it happened to be the exact opposite. A fan blew in the corner, which made everything, assuredly, a lot cooler than Paul would have liked. Still, Paul merely enjoyed being somewhere else other than the miserable room that inhabited all of those… Ordinary people.

"Take a seat across the bed, please—we'll do a real quick check-up before escalating any further, okay?" 

Paul let out a heavy, but happy sigh once he was seated. The mat didn't feel overly comfortable, and neither did the tissue paper that laid beneath him, but Paul highly doubted that he would have been there longer to take any physical notices to it.

Pattie's slim fingers ran against her metal stethoscope, and just as she informed, they went through the usual routine, checking up to make sure his vitals were okay before she gingerly had him laying down against the cool, gray mat.

"And where's the lucky guy?" She cooed in the same sweet, adorable tone, the gap between her beautiful teeth particularly present when she showed him her grin of gratitude. Paul's heart noticeably hitched in the perimeter of his chest. His veins felt hot in his arms, and all blood seemed to rush to his soft face. He couldn't tell her anything, and the fact seemed to dissipate hotly into his ears. It didn't feel calming anymore. Paul wanted to melt into the mattress, just never to be seen again…

Pattie hiked his shirt up to his tummy, her cool fingertips smudging along his ribs. 

"He, um… He's at work." Paul explained. It was somewhat true, although not at all. Paul wished it was that simple. The attorney hissed when the blonde's hands coated his skin with that cool gel. He knew it was mandatory, but why the hell did it want him to jump out of his spine?

"Oh really? What does he work as?"

"He's a doctor," 

Pattie's smile stretched across her delicate features. The monitor above him lit up happily, showcasing a large compartment of empty photos. Paul's heart seemed to light up along with it. He couldn't believe this was happening to him—there was no way that he would see a baby--/his/ baby across the digital screen. Paul couldn't rack the excitement off of his spine. 

The machine buzzed and spurted as Pattie's device ran across his pale flesh. Within seconds, a small, barely noticeable figure appeared on the screen. It wasn't anything special, but the fact that it was alive and inside of him… Paul's eyes watered. He couldn't believe what he was seeing--he couldn't comprehend its benevolence. The small dot was enough to coat his vocal cords with sobs. Paul was ecstatic. 

"Do you see that?" Pattie asked, and Paul nodded so quickly that his head spun. The only thing that would make the moment extraordinary is if John was there, holding his hand as they stared at their little pride and joy…

"That's the baby." She explained, and Paul knew exactly what she meant. It was so perfect…

Her fingers nimbly ran across the screen, tracing over something that showed the frequency of its heartbeat. It had a heartbeat! 

"Y'know, I haven't seen one with such a robust heart rate… It seems to be quite healthy. You should be proud." 

Paul couldn't explain just how proud he was. He wondered what it would have been like to hold the lovely thing within its arms. He couldn't even fathom how great it would feel to dress it, to give it kisses and read it bedtime stories, to sleep next to it and pet its thick strands of hair—that is, once it finally grew hair. Babies…. He just adored babies.

"I'll be sure to print pictures once we're finished up here…"


End file.
